Dance Me to the End of Love
by Boots1980
Summary: In Series 6, Ruth Ellingham tells Martin he must change to keep Louisa. As Ruth guides Martin toward change, we learn a great deal about her fascinating life and how her experiences may stop Martin and Louisa from "dancing to the end of love."
1. Chapter 1

" _ **Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin**_

 _ **Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in**_

 _ **Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove**_

 _ **Dance me to the end of love**_

 _ **Oh dance me to the end of love"**_

 _ **Leonard Cohen**_

 **Chapter 1 - Paddington Station, London, August 2004**

"Joan, it was lovely of you to come for the funeral. So unnecessary but very much appreciated."

The two sisters stood awkwardly at the platform for Cornwall looking very unlike sisters. Few would have thought them such. One tall, large-boned, her white hair and blue eyes set in a rounded face with a body to match. The other dark eyes, shadowed deeply from lack of sleep, perhaps grief. Her once brown hair threaded with grey, considerably shorter and fitter than her sister. One took after her sturdy father, the other favoured her delicate mother.

Yet sisters they were, both now members of an ancient sorority left behind by the men they loved. Ruth Ellingham had traveled to Cornwall a few years earlier for the funeral of Joan's husband, Phil Norton. Now her sister had come to London for the funeral of Russell Fairhill, Ruth's – uhm – Joan could never work out how to describe Russell to her friends in the village. Surely, boyfriend was not quite right, nor was partner as Ruth and Russell had not actually lived together. More constant companions for the last nine years or so.

Ruth had met him several years after his wife's death. "Breast cancer" was all Russell would say. He had locked up the memory of his Beatrice, and it would never be discussed with another, not even his two daughters. Apparently, this was not the only thing Russell failed to mention. The women knew nothing of Ruth; although she knew of them, she never pressed Russell to meet his family.

He would go off to them at Christmas and the odd holiday as well as several weeks in summer. On his return, Ruth would listen as Russell talked fondly of them and proudly showed photos of daughters Gemma and Deirdre with their children. Ruth considered this a part of his life with Beatrice. It was not her business.

The three women finally met at the A&E of Hammersmith Hospital following the coronary infarction that felled him during a calculus tutorial. Ruth had arrived first, having been called from a meeting with a particularly difficult patient. Russell was still alive and grasped her hand, unable to talk through the tubes and lines covering his face. Ruth did not speak either as she endeavoured to sort out the conversation amongst the registrars, house officers and – at the last - a cardiology consultant.

They thought Ruth his wife and allowed her to remain in the treating room. She did nothing to change their opinion. Shortly after the consultant arrived, the daughter she recognized as Gemma clicked through in her very important lawyer pumps. "Blast, they've told me the wrong place. I was looking for my father." Ruth dropped Russell's hand, "This is the right room. I'm Ruth Ellingham, a friend of your father's."

"Do you teach with him, then?"

"No, only a friend." Ruth stepped from the bed and made her way to the door when Deirdre, the younger daughter and Russell's favourite, arrived: "Oh Gemma, thank God you're here. "How's Daddy?"

Then each sister took one of Russell's hands which they clutched until he died several minutes later. Ruth stood at the doorway, her left hand gripping the rough metal casing, gone quite faint as the consultant somberly said "time of death 1517 hours." After quickly signing a form, she hurried past Ruth who watched her pause at a window, bring a tissue to her eyes and then rush down the corridor.

This bit distracted Ruth from the wailing of the two sisters who moved from the bed as the nurse took tubes from Russell's nose and mouth. They embraced each other, not unlike she and Joan had done when their father died in this same hospital so many years ago.

The shock of Russell's death had the effect of scattering Ruth's orderly mind. Rather than flee as she wanted, Ruth continued to grasp the door casing, its coldness a first realization that she would no longer have the warmth of Russell's touch.

Finally, a diminutive woman with a sympathetic air came into the room and seeing Ruth asked, "Are you Mrs. Fairhill?"

"No, I'm Ruth Ellingham," she rasped. "These are Mr. Fairhill's daughters. Gemma and Deirdre, I believe."

The sisters looked at Ruth, their faces changing from shock to confusion, unsure of her.

"Alright, then. I'm Marielle Baptiste from the Chaplaincy Service. Let's have the nurse continue with your father and we'll have a talk. Tea if you like. Please come with me, ladies."

They walked slowly past Ruth saying, "Thank you. Very kind of you," clearly too shattered to understand where Ruth fit in the scene that had only now unfolded.

Ruth nodded at them, unsure of what to say or do. She then drove slowly back to Broadmoor, trying to sort out the scene for herself. The office junior, a jolly sort, looked concerned when Ruth appeared. "Dr. Ellingham, you seem quite ill. May I bring you something?"

"No," Ruth again rasped.

In the sanctuary of her office, Ruth poured water, sipped it and reached for the phone to ring Joan. It was then that she cried out the hurt of losing Russell and the pain of not being able to share her grief with his family.

Joan arrived early the next afternoon, briskly comforting and ready to see Ruth through the funeral and beyond. It was she who found that the service would be three days hence at Saint Mary le Strand, the church where Ruth and Russell intended to marry.

Ruth appreciated Joan not telling her how to manage the next few days. She saw Ruth off to Broadmoor each morning after preparing only the fruit and toast her sister reluctantly accepted. At night Joan served a simple meal rather than the hearty fare Ruth knew she preferred. Even then, it was difficult for her to swallow more than a bit of food, although she forced herself to do so. She could not be weak for the funeral.

It was a full-on High Church service, replete with the hymns Russell loved. A son-in law provided a personal eulogy of a man devoted to his family, university, students and church. Of course, with no mention of Ruth. It ended with the traditional, "We will sorely miss our dear Russell but take comfort in knowing he will be with his beloved Beatrice once more."

Joan reached for her sister's hand, ready to absorb the agony surely suffusing Ruth. It was relieved a bit by the second eulogy from Russell's longtime friend, Howard Breed, who recalled a life filled with scholarly achievement and music, most of which was well known to Ruth. She was a bit startled when Howard ended his talk with a reading from the Book of Ruth. The brief passage could be construed as a friend's farewell to a friend or was it something more, Joan wondered.

"Where you go I will go, and where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. When you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me."

Ruth raised her head as Howard left the chancel, looked directly toward her and bowed slightly. His message was clear: She was part of Russell's life and now his death.

Joan led Ruth from the church to a waiting car, but not before she saw Gemma and Deirdre exchange puzzled glances. The younger women turned quickly away from the older sisters to join the procession walking toward Russell's university on Aldwych Street. There a funeral reception would be held, but Ruth had not been invited.

Now - a week later - Joan was satisfied that Ruth could manage on her own. It was a busy season at Havenhurst Farm and her neighbors could do only do so much. Joan had spared Ruth the boxing up of clothing Russell left at her flat along with books, music, the bits and pieces of their life together. The one photograph of them smiling together in Salzburg Ruth kept. It was taken soon after Russell told her he loved her, unlike anyone or anything he had ever known. Ruth responded in a similar fashion. Then they had made love, fallen asleep and hurried to the posh restaurant where the photograph was snapped.

Now that part of her life was over. Like Russell, she would lock away his memory and never discuss him with anyone, save Joan, the keeper of the Ellingham family secrets.

"You'll be fine then Ruthie," Joan placed her hand on Ruth's shoulder.

"Yes, of course. Now we must see you off to Portwenn. The sheep and veg won't wait and then there's Martin coming in two weeks' time. I can't imagine how that will resolve itself. He has a phobia that could be contained with only a short course of treatment. Why he is leaving a career at its zenith cannot be explained."

"Stubborn. Bloody, bloody stubborn. Like our charming brother, Christopher."

The sisters had discussed Martin's predicament as much as Ruth's. Both were quite fond of the lad and held a common hope that a kind woman would happen upon Martin and marry him. Neither was a romantic, but they wanted a good life for the nephew who suffered so at the hands of his negligent parents.

His relationship with Edwina had ended badly, but Ruth and Joan had not lost hope for Martin. In a very uncharacteristic way, Ruth had suggested several psychologists to her nephew, not for their exceptional skill but more for their age and marital status. Perhaps one of these attractive, eligible women – Ruth reasoned – could develop more than a professional relationship with Martin.

He consulted none of the women, nor would he discuss with his aunt what he named "the incident." Ruth continued to phone him, but her messages were left unanswered. It was Joan who rang her a month ago, incredulous with the news that Martin was to replace old Jim Sims as the GP in Portwenn.

"I can't believe it. He's been quite angry with me and said nothing. I suppose I pushed a bit too much with his phobia. He still seemed miffed when Russell and I ran into him at the cinema months ago."

"Martin at the cinema, now that I can believe. That's how he's learned about life. Not an outgoing sort, our Marty, but the films help him make sense of the world."

"Russell thought he looked more sheepish than anything. I put it down to our being together. You know how Martin is about that sort of thing. You and John - all that."

"Mmm. Well, what was the film? One of his usual period pieces – 'To Kill a King,' or worse? He's always been fascinated by Oliver Cromwell."

"No, it was 'Love Actually,' the Christmas film. Everyone in London was quite taken with it, and Russell insisted we see it. Come to think of it, Martin didn't look as much miffed as embarrassed. Perhaps he didn't want me to see him at such a sentimental film."

"Well for my money, what Marty _actually_ needs is love. Portwenn is the last place he's likely to find it, but we can hope, dear sister, we can hope."

To be continued . . . .

 **Author's note** : According to the wedding program for Louisa Glasson and Martin Ellingham, "Portuguese Love Theme" by C. Armstrong was played during the Signing of The Register. This song was featured in the film "Love Actually."


	2. Chapter 2

" **Dance me to the children who are asking to be born . . .**

 **Dance me to the end of love. . . ."**

 **Chapter 2 – Lizard Peninsula, Cornwall, July 2009**

The B&B near Gunwalloe was better than Ruth expected given her cynical nature. She had arrived after sunset to find a shale stone cottage, its slate roof outlined in cheerful faery lights, exactly as it appeared on the website. An amiable woman bustled about Ruth's rain spotted Mercedes, not to be stopped from bringing in her travel case. "Aletha, my name's Aletha Cuttance," she curtsied in introduction. The quaintness of Cornwall drew a contrast to the madness Ruth left behind at Broadmoor. The transfer of prisoners to Rampton had not been well orchestrated - this and the effects of lupus left her exhausted.

Swollen joints, the persistent rash on her wrists and hands were the first symptoms of the _lupus nephritis_ which caused her mother's kidney failure. It was inevitable that Ruth would die the same wretched death as Mum. On first recognizing her symptoms, Ruth tried to stop smoking in an effort to ward off the heart attacks and strokes associated with the disease. What an ordeal. Ruth had always been fit and drank little. It was the smoking that confounded her.

After several false starts with the patch, Ruth gave in and consulted a behavioural psychologist she had once referred to Martin. Ironically, the woman had married and was pregnant with her second child. Ruth could not banish the thought that had Martin only phoned her, they could now be anticipating the birth of a baby.

Days after Ruth finally stopped smoking and the psychologist's daughter was born, she learned from Joan that Martin was expecting a child, but without benefit of marriage or much of a relationship with the mother. Ruth incurred Joan's ire when she had sniffed "Of course, a village girl. Tell Martin to give her money and have nothing to do with the child. It's what she wants. How many more does the girl have?"

Joan icily reminded Ruth that this was the woman Martin had intended to marry and that she needed no money from the family. She was quite independent, perhaps too much so. She had refused any support from Martin, and it was only through Joan's persistence that she was able to help a bit.

Wasn't Ruth's initial reaction to Phil Norton the same, Joan asked. He had no education, worked for his dad, and viewed the girl who would inherit Havenhurst Farm as his path to a rosy future. Jealously caused Ruth to disapprove of the union between her brilliant sister and the Cornish lad Joan excitedly described in her letters. Ruth counseled a return to London for Joanie where she might find a proper man to marry. If, indeed, that was what she wanted.

Ironically, marriage wasn't what Ruth wanted until it was too late. After her early sexual escapades with Johnny Myrick, she was put off men for many years. But she was anxious to marry Russell. He proposed only weeks before his death and was to tell his daughters whilst on holiday with their families. A simple ceremony was planned at St. Mary Le Strand, and they would return to Salzburg for what her friends laughingly called a decrepit honeymoon. Sally Hocking would be her witness and Howard Breed, Russell's best man. If crops were in, Joan would come to London for the service.

Oh bother! Why did Russell die and now her only sister? She had urged Joan to have the simple blood tests which would confirm if she had Lupus as well. The autoimmune disease had a genetic basis and sisters were often afflicted. Ruth hadn't been tested. Her symptoms were classic - the diagnosis obvious.

Joan had resisted Ruth's effort to pursue the matter but promised to shift weight and follow a healthier regime. Of course, she died too soon, perhaps from a weakened artery caused by the malady. Ruth wished for the merciful speed of Joan's death and to be spared her mother's suffering.

As she maneouvered her large sedan through the narrow Cornish lanes, she realised how frightfully easy it would be to slip over a verge and glide down a rockery to her death. She had no one to look after her as the disease worsened. Imagining herself confined to a care home staffed by desperate emigres, Ruth's sole comfort knowing that a Polish woman may gain a work permit by tending to her wasting body.

Perhaps, she could end her life in Cornwall. People were kind, the weather certainly better than London. Someone like the good-natured Aletha might care for her. The B&B's proprietor had given her a cream tea, coddled egg and ham bap for supper, but Ruth needed water to swallow the meal. Autoimmune diseases, such as Lupus, did not present consistent symptoms. In Ruth's case she experienced dry mouth and scratchy eyes as well as the more common swollen joints. When Martin rang to announce Joan's death, she had burst into tears, except there were none; only mucous from her nose. Bloody horrid disease would not allow a proper cry for Joanie!

She had arisen early, so drained by the Lupus-related fatigue that she could sleep three hours or ten and not feel rested. After a warm bath, she felt able to endure the funeral, although Martin assured her the service would be brief. He would say the eulogy and no one else could speak, including Ruth. The Women's Institute was providing a funeral reception at the village hall in Portwenn which he would not attend. It was only an opportunity for villagers to enjoy free food and ogle his child.

"Your child, Martin? It is your child. You're sure of that, are you?" Ruth's words escaped before she could add "I'm sorry to say that. But you must have asked yourself the same thing. This girl knows a good thing when she sees it. You must protect yourself if there is any question." Once quick to anger, she was surprised that Martin calmly responded: "Her name is Louisa, and the child is mine. There is no question. When you see him, you will understand why I am certain."

After a breakfast of tea and cereal, Aletha provided a rough map to Saint Winwaloe Church. She had last been to the beach-side building for Phil Norton's funeral and many years before when only she and Uncle Dick attended his marriage to Joanie. The repercussions of being her sister's maid of honour haunted Ruth for years.

No longer did her father treat her with love and respect, but as a pariah who was complicit in breaching the rules of their class. Their relationship became one in which he tolerated Ruth, and she – in turn – accepted his foibles. When her mother died, he made no pretence of continuing on with his children, save Christopher, who had provided Henry Ellingham with a much adored grandson.

The only joy Ruth then saw in her father was with Martin. The prestigious surgeon doted on the child for as many minutes as his son would allow. "Cut from the same cloth," Ruth heard repeatedly. Quiet, intelligent, literal, and pensive. The grandfather and grandson smiled at each other but not the rest of the world. Comfortable in a companionship that excluded all others.

When Ruth and Joan left Hammersmith Hospital after their father died, it fell to Ruth to notify Martin. His parents were on safari in Tanzania and could not be readily reached. The head master offered to tell Martin of the death, saying: "These things happen. Our boys are taught to be strong and show no emotions. Master Ellingham will bear up properly."

His callous words chilled Ruth as she knew how precious his grandfather was to Martin. Her nephew rang the Kensington home in the early evening, and – at age 12 - he was wise enough to know that something was wrong. He first asked, perhaps too eagerly: "Has something happened to my parents?"

Before Ruth could stop herself, she responded: "I wish that were the case." A slight sigh from Martin indicated his assent.

"No, my darling boy. It is your grandfather. He has died, Martin. I'm terribly sorry. I know you loved him so."

Intelligent to the extreme and as emotionless as the head master promised, her nephew asked: "What was the cause of death. Please tell me in medical terms. I'm certain to understand."

After Ruth delivered the complete cardiology report, Martin probed with more pointed questions. Finally he asked: "Will an autopsy be necessary?"

"No, I don't believe so. It was deemed natural causes."

"Good. I find autopsies particularly useless. Often they confirm only what a well-trained junior registrar could determine."

Ruth had to remind herself that she was talking with a 12 year old child rather than a medical colleague. She offered to fetch him from Olympia Station the next morning, but Martin assured her it wasn't necessary. He could manage on his own.

Martin's pitch-perfect performance continued throughout the next few days. When someone complimented his poise, he would say only: "It's what Mister Ellingham taught me." Not "Grandfather," but the professional title Henry Ellingham carried for so many years. Joan wryly noted: "I'm surprised the dear child doesn't say 'Mister Ellingham, MBBS, FRCS, GBE.'"

Christopher and Margaret returned only in time for the funeral and Ruth saw a marked change in her nephew's behaviour. His poise vanished, head lowered; he would have crawled behind the wallpaper given the chance. The limelight shifted to his father who played the mourning son and to his mother who couldn't quite muster the supportive wife role.

A day later the reading of the will proved contentious. Joan had remained in London following the funeral, but saw no need to be at the solicitor's office. Father had disinherited her when she married Phil Norton, so she went off to lunch with old school friends. Ruth expected nothing either, knowing her father never forgave her class betrayal.

Ruth was sickened at the thought of Christopher and Margaret inheriting her father's sizeable wealth, but there was nothing that could be done. She had a good salary, a flat bought with the legacy from her mother, and was financially secure. Let her brother and sister-in-law squander the family money. This would be the last she would have to see them, and that alone was worth any inheritance.

Arthur Spilsbury, the family lawyer, ushered them into an office that was the embodiment of old England. Worn Persian carpets and dark paneled walls absorbed the weak sunlight from the north-facing windows. Ruth struggled to sit gracefully in the deep leather club chair whilst balancing the tea cup presented by Spilsbury's secretary, Agnes Makepeace. When he finally got to it, the solicitor made the reading as dramatic as a Piccadilly play. Ruth had rather enjoyed his performance when mother's will was read, but now she only wanted to be rid of the pomp that personified her family.

The usual bequests were made to the family servants whose numbers had dwindled over the years. Those who had the good sense to remain were rewarded with amounts that gladdened Ruth. That much less for Christopher. The latter gasped when he heard the amount Father bequeathed to Oxford for a research project on autoimmune diseases in honour of his wife and to Harrow, which had educated generations of Ellingham males before Martin.

Over his son's objections, Henry Ellingham had acquiesced to his grandson's request that he be allowed to study at Tonbridge, a school that offered the science-based curriculum he wished to pursue. A lesser, but generous sum was given to that school where Martin had excelled in his first year.

Several churches in London and Scotland, where the family once had a holiday home, benefited from the deceased's largesse. Similar sums were given to arts organizations, a list of charities Ruth never imagined her father would support, and to the RSPCA Center at Hounslow.

Ruth tried to keep track of the money but failed as the bequests continued to mount. Surely, there could be little left for Christopher, which made Ruth exceedingly happy. Her joy grew as Mr. Spilsbury announced a substantial trust for the education of young Martin Ellingham, to be administered by Dr. Ruth Ellingham. What a relief, as she suspected the profligate Margaret and Christopher had made no provisions for their son's education. Her father had incurred the costs to date and the trust would do so through medical school. Perhaps a small sum would be left so that Martin could establish himself in a Harley Street office. Unlike Ruth, he would surely follow the Ellingham men into private practise.

Spilsbury paused and fiddled about whilst Miss Makepeace, seemingly on cue, carefully took the tea cups from the hands of Ruth, Christopher and Margaret.

"Now," the solicitor's tone turned soothing, "my dear friend Henry, was never an ordinary man. Quite extraordinary, in fact. He was terribly proud of his children who through dint of hard work, became quite successful and financially independent. For this reason, he has directed that the house in Kensington and its contents be sold immediately. Those proceeds and the balance of his estate will pass to Doctors Without Borders. In his retirement, Henry was quite taken with their humanitarian work amongst the weakest of the earth."

Ruth now understood why the tea cups had been removed for Christopher would certainly have thrown his at Spilsbury. She expended great effort to contain a smile as her brother shouted and fumed that there must be a mistake. When was the will executed? Who were the witnesses? His father was not in his right mind, and the solicitor must take action immediately to overturn the will. It was a travesty. He deserved the money from his father, no needed the money. London was an expensive city. Did Spilsbury understand the cost of a staffed household? He would hire another solicitor and see to it that he received the bulk of his father's estate. After all, he alone had provided an heir to carry on the Ellingham name.

Ruth had heard enough and managed to extract herself from the enveloping chair. "Mr. Spilsbury, thank you very much for your time. I trust you will handle the bequests in a prompt and efficient manner. Thank you Miss Makepeace for the tea, and your kindness to our family over the years. I will take my leave now and let Christopher continue his antics only in the presence of his lovely wife, Margaret."

With that Ruth made her way to the double wood door, but the scuttling solicitor reached it first. He gallantly opened the door for her and whispered: "Jolly good, wouldn't you say." Ruth nodded and blinked as she entered the sun washed reception area, furnished in a sleek Scandinavian style. The requisite blonde receptionist directed Ruth to the lavatory where her laugher finally escaped. This was the best legacy her father could have left, and she couldn't wait to tell Joanie.

Ruth arrived at the café after Joan and her friends had consumed several bottles of wine with lunch. The five old girls were in a festive mood, and Ruth's mirth mixed with theirs. Soon the Londoners had to rush off to husbands wanting dinner and children to be fetched. Ruth then summarised the will's reading for Joan, who thrust her glass aloft: "To my father. He may have hated me, but he hated that bastard Christopher even more. Cheers!"

Continued . . . .


	3. Chapter 3

" **Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on . . . ."**

 **Chapter 3 – Gunwalloe, Cornwall, July 2009**

On the short drive to St. Winwalloe Church, Ruth wondered if her prodigal brother Christopher would have the temerity to appear at Joan's funeral. She couldn't imagine Martin ringing him, but perhaps he did so with some misplaced sense of filial duty. Ruth rarely heard from Christopher since he last begged for money a year ago. Something about a tax dodge in the Algarve which had turned into a fraudulent mess. Christopher had no financial nous, and Ruth told him so.

Agnes Makepeace rang Ruth a few days later to report that Christopher and Margaret had stormed into their office and met with Mr. Spilsbury's successor, young Mr. Davidow, to insist that Henry Ellingham's will be re-opened and challenged legally. Some funds were certainly reachable, particularly through the trust Ruth administered for Martin. Mr. Davidow advised the Ellinghams that no funds were available as the trust had been terminated years earlier. The records showed only a few thousand pounds remained, and they were distributed to Action for Children by the trust beneficiary.

Ruth smiled recalling her surprise when Martin rang asking to dissolve the trust. He had carefully researched charities in aid of children and found that AFC was the most sound. With his aunt's permission, Martin would donate the balance to this charity. He planned to attend the group's Battlefield Run in Naseby where Oliver Cromwell defeated Charles I in 1645. Martin had always wanted to visit the site where the Roundheads routed the Royalists.

"Will you take part in the run, Martin?" Ruth dared ask.

"Of course not. Don't be foolish. I'll only deliver the cheque to Mrs. Langdale who has been quite helpful. She's allowed me to designate it for lads afflicted by bed wetting. In most cases, a simple procedure will solve the problem. I've added a sum to the trust proceeds as well."

"Oh my dear boy, that's very kind of you. Will they offer psychological counseling as well. That's critical, you see."

The long pause Ruth had anticipated followed. She could almost sense Martin's anger charging the line - his usual reaction to any mention of therapy - particularly for him. Finally, he gasped: "I'm not sure. Mrs. Langdale would know better. I must ring off now."

Trying to end their conversation on a better note, Ruth hurriedly asked if Edwina would accompany him.

This time the pause was shorter as Martin had become more adept at deflecting questions about women from his two aunts. "She may. It depends on her rota that weekend. Must hurry. Terribly busy, Auntie."

Ruth's "Good bye, my dear" was not completed before Martin rang off.

It was Agnes Makepeace who sent Ruth the programme from the Battlefield Run accompanied by a photo of Martin thrusting an envelope into the hands of a woman she presumed was Mrs. Langdale. Edwina stood at his side, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve, tall but not nearly his height. Ruth studied Martin's companion for a minute to see if there was a hint of joy about her.

She was attractive enough, with her cinnamon tinged hair, cut in the classic London bob, stirred slightly by the wind. Ruth could never determine if her eyes were blue or green, as she wore spectacles at a time when most women had adopted contact lenses. Skin was her best feature, and it looked as if Titian had brushed Edwina's body to a creamy hue. Ruth had never seen Edwina in summer but imagined the sun would coax forth a few freckles to mar her flawless complexion.

Ruth had first met the girl at Christmas lunch a few months earlier. Edwina had little family, and her parents were traveling once again. Not particularly voluble, she finally let slip that she always celebrated Christmas with her grandmother but was now alone following granny's death. That day she had made an effort and wore a white shawl, embroidered with green holly and small red birds. It was lovely and softened her severe black jacket and trousers. Socially inept, she had brought Ruth three bottles of French wine, still in the merchant's plastic carrier, their price stickers affixed.

Martin showed a measure of civility with prices removed from the books he presented to Ruth. Of course, they were not wrapped in fancy paper, but the bookseller had placed them in a red bag emblazoned with gold stars. When he handed it to Ruth she asked if the stars were a reward for his effort in visiting her. Martin dropped a kiss on her cheek to acknowledge this witticism.

Ruth had prepared a similar supper for Russell and a group of their friends a few days earlier. It had been a merry event, and Ruth tried to repeat it for Edwina and Martin. Her efforts seemed doomed until Edwina became a bit more talkative as a second bottle of wine was opened. Her face took on a rosy lustre as she leaned confidentially toward Ruth and asked: "What was Martin like as a child? I can't imagine, but it's important that I know."

"Delightful. He was a sweet, chubby baby who never cried, never gave his nanny a turn. He was easily entertained when he visited my parents. Mother was quite ill by then, but Father would read to the both of them for hours. Martin had an early exposure to the culinary world as Mum enjoyed cooking and Father read from cookery books. Mind you this was a time when most houses had cooks, but Mum prepared the meals and had more of a girl who helped with the cutting, chopping and washing up. I believe Martin's grandmother took some private cookery classes with Elizabeth David as well. Today's chestnut and apple terrine is from Mrs. David's Christmas book."

"So that explains why Martin's a fantastic cook. It's from his grandmother; I didn't expect it would be his mother. He said she never cooked a meal in her life. Not even a melted cheese when he was ill."

"Really, Edwina, that's enough. No need to dredge up the past, Aunt Ruth."

"But Martin, I have lovely memories of my grandmother. Not as a cook, but she did the most exquisite needlework. This shawl is from her – I mentioned it earlier, and you said it was appropriate. I took that to mean you thought it pretty."

"Appropriate! Oh Martin, the shawl is exquisite, and Edwina is pretty. You should tell her so." Ruth brought hand to mouth realizing she may have gone a bit too far under the wine's influence.

"Let me do the clearing, Aunt Ruth," Martin seemed desperate to flee the two women.

"Go on then, if you must. Edwina, my dear, you stay with me. I believe there are some photographs of Martin as a child."

"No, Aunt Ruth! That's not necessary."

"Oh, Martin, I would so enjoy seeing them. You've seen my childhood photos – even the horrid ones with spots and that wretched orthodontic device."

Ruth had only a few photos of Martin, and Edwina marveled over each of them, even the somber ones from his time at Saint Benedict's.

"Oh now this one's fantastic." Edwina held a picture of Martin marked 10 years of age. "Look at that smile. He looks happy wouldn't you say."

"Yes, my father snapped that photo. He and Martin were quite the compatriots. I often wish Father had lived longer. Martin may have been spared his own father's wrath."

With Martin splashing water about in the kitchen, Ruth felt free to say a bit more about him, hopefully to explain what many saw as his rude behaviour. Edwina's eyes were tearing when she finished.

"Oh, Ruth, I had no idea. Martin's only said that his parents weren't involved; almost making excuses for them. He's like my patients. These brave children with awful cancers, but their first concern is for mum and dad. It's heart wrenching when they beg me not to tell their parents if they've had a relapse. They can endure anything, but try to protect their families.

"I would love to have a child, but worry that I would be a cold, horrid parent like the Ellinghams. I've had to inure myself to so much to do my job properly. On the other hand, Martin is a dear with the patients. When he visits my ward, they flock to him. He is so gentle and kind. If I hadn't seen that bit of him, I'm not sure I would have much to do with your nephew. He's a tyrant on the surgical ward and most of the medical staff either fears or envies him."

At that moment, Ruth looked up to see Martin standing with a tray of coffee. "Oh, how wonderful. Let me serve the terrine. It'll only be a minute." Ruth dropped the photos and hastened to the sideboard.

The evening ended in a more pleasant way than Ruth thought possible. As she and Edwina made their prolonged good byes and plans for a future lunch, Martin held her coat and remarked that the shawl was very pretty and she looked nice. Edwina responded by taking his hand which Martin did not withdraw. Ruth watched them down the corridor and, when they paused for the lift, Martin bent and kissed Edwina. Ruth closed the door with a smile.

It was time for her Christmas chat with Joanie, and now Ruth had something to tell her. Joan would be thrilled. Every bit of her conversation with Edwina was dissected by the aunts, particularly that Edwina wanted a child and that she judged Martin a natural parent. Ruth and Joan were willing to suspend belief that the latter was correct, but surely a paedetrician would know if children related well to Marty. Accompanied by wine for Ruth and sherry for Joan, they nearly had Martin and Edwina's wedding arranged by the time they wished each other a final Happy Christmas.

"Oh, Ruthie, it's been such a miserable year. This news is grand. I must come into London to meet this Edwina. I feel very good about her. I think Martin may have found a suitable wife."

Over the next few months, the two sisters tried to contain their speculation about Edwina and Martin as they had little to feed their hopes. Lunch with Ruth was twice postponed by Edwina because of work scheduling. The Naseby trip finally allowed Ruth an opportunity for another conversation with Martin about Edwina. She vowed to be less pushy this time.

Ruth waited until late the following Saturday afternoon, a time when she knew Martin would be in his office and relatively free. He answered on the first ring but soon grew irritated when Ruth asked if Edwina had enjoyed the trip to Naseby.

"I see you've been gossiping with Miss Makepeace," Martin's tone was curt. "Her service to this family is over and there's no need for you to contact her."

"Oh really Martin. Agnes was kind enough to send me a programme and photo of you presenting funds to the charity. Nothing more. Edwina was at your side. That's why I asked."

"Doctor Smallwood has a quick mind and is a dedicated oncologist. That is all you need to know."

"Do you mean that she lacks vanity and cares only for her patients, Martin?"

"That's as it should be. If doctors didn't care for their patients, where would we be?"

"Does Edwina care for you then Martin?" Ruth inhaled to gain the courage to continue: "Do you think this might be a woman you would marry?"

"Martin's retort was much faster: "That's none of your business. Why must you and Auntie Joan bang on about me marrying anyone, much less Edwina?" A short pause was followed by Martin being more conciliatory. "I'm sorry, Ruth, but that's something we must sort out on our own. Edwina wants a child, more of a family you see. I never thought that important, but she has this notion. . ."

Martin's voice trailed off, and Ruth stepped in to save him: "That's fine, Martin. I don't wish to interfere. You know that Joan and I want only the best for you. We do love you, my dear." And here Ruth knew she was treading heavily: "We hope Edwina loves you as well."

Both she and Martin were so surprised by her declaration that they eagerly ended the call with rushed "good byes."

Continued. . . .


	4. Chapter 4

" _ **Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn . . . ."**_

 **Chapter 4 – Saint Winwalloe Church carpark, July 2009**

Ruth raised her head and looked toward the sea. In the distance was the hearse bearing Joan's remains, wending its way toward the church. Her sister loved Martin so - as did Ruth. Until Edwina, they despaired that any woman would ever love their nephew.

As it turned out, Edwina did love Martin but her feelings apparently were not reciprocated. One Sunday, a year after Naseby, Ruth was skimming the wedding announcements in "The Times." It was something she and Joan did with Mum from the time they were young girls. They would spread out the papers, tea at hand, and alternate reading the announcements to Dorothy Ellingham. She would always have an arch comment or two, and Ruth often found herself judging the brides as Mum once did. Mother always said that a lady's name should appear in the newspapers only three times: at her birth, wedding and death. Woe unto the woman who thought it appropriate to announce a second marriage in "The Times." The three were properly aghast at this social _faux pas._

This particular Sunday, Russell was off to a conference in Davos and Ruth took up the newspaper happy to be alone with this reminder of mother. She pressed her lips together at what seemed to be several unsuitable unions and had to read twice when she saw that Miss Edwina Mary Smallwood had been married to Mr. James Donald Archer at Saint Matthew's in Westminster.

Surely it couldn't be Martin's Edwina! Ruth consulted her computer to make certain and quickly found more details of the couple's marriage. This Edwina Smallwood was a paediatric oncologist at Saint Thomas's, and her new husband a journalist for "The Financial Times." They met when James interviewed her for a series of articles about new cancer treatments not authorised by NHS. A brief courtship followed.

Oh, bloody hell! It was the same Edwina! What happened? The few times Ruth saw or chatted with Martin by phone, she carefully made no reference to Dr. Smallwood. If there was something to tell her, it would be on Martin's terms. Joan practised a similar restraint in not quizzing her nephew, but took it as a hopeful sign when he phoned her out of the blue asking if he might visit Portwenn in the spring. She felt certain he wanted Edwina to meet his other aunt and see Havenhurst.

Ruth's second surprise of the day was a late afternoon phone call from Martin. "Have you read 'The Times' today, Aunt Ruth," he began without ceremony.

"As a matter of fact I have. You must mean Edwina's marriage?" Why be coy; there would be no other reason for Martin to ring. Perhaps, he felt a little down, but Ruth would not pry.

"Yes, that's right." His tone was more defencive than morose, a not unexpected reaction from her taciturn nephew.

"How do you feel about it, Martin? Would you like to come out for supper? We can have omelettes and soup if you like. It's tinned, but the organic sort. Quite healthy."

"No tinned soup is healthy, Aunt Ruth. That's nothing but poppycock. You can easily make soup that is much more nutritious."

"Martin, this isn't about soup. It's about Edwina marrying another man. If you're upset about it, we can chat now or I could even meet you for a bite at St. Thomas's. It's early yet."

"No, no. I'm at the flat. Rounds went well today. The registrars were prepared and the patients were quite cooperative. Really, there's nothing to discuss. I only wanted you to know that you no longer had to wonder about Edwina and me. Not that I thought you did – you and Aunt Joan."

"Oh, my dear boy, of course we wondered about the two of you. We didn't wish to interfere."

"Yes, well, it seems you weren't the ones to interfere. It was this James – this James bloody Archer," Martin angrily spluttered. So he was upset at being bested by another man. A more appropriate reaction than tamping down his emotions as he was wont to do.

"What do you mean, Martin?" Ruth sensed his need to talk, but he would not voluntarily do so without her prodding.

"Well it seems one minute Edwina was nudging me about babies, prattling on about her biological clock, that sort of rubbish. The next, she sent me this ridiculous letter saying that as much as she loved me, she did not believe I had the capacity for love. Capacity for love, Aunt Ruth? What nonsense! What does that even mean?"

Now he was angry. Good. But how to explain love to a man who suffered so from the lack of it?

"Martin, it's clear that Edwina was not the right woman for you." Ruth trotted out the word salve she had administered to many over the years. It was as good a way as any to begin the conversation.

"But she was Aunt Ruth. She truly was. She's brilliant and patients have such faith in her. The families as well. When I visited her ward, the children were so hopeful. Even the worse cases thought that Doctor Edwina would help them. When children died, the parents never blamed her. She would sit with them and comfort them. I could never do that. She was so kind. She was kind to me" - here a long pause occurred - "quite comforting as well."

Ruth couldn't imagine how Martin struggled to acknowledge that someone gave him comfort. She wondered how he reacted to Edwina. Perhaps she didn't understand Martin's silence. He likely appreciated her, but never told her so. Of course, it ended badly.

"Martin, I know this has been a blow to you. But you are better to address it than to push it out of your mind. You knew Edwina for over a year, and she was important to you . . ."

"Actually it was more than two years," Martin interrupted. "I only brought her to meet you when I thought we would marry. I wanted her to visit Portwenn and meet Auntie Joan as well. If she approved, I hoped we could become engaged. Have a wedding. Have the family Edwina wanted. We would do it all in quick order. At our ages we must crack on with babies."

Now Ruth must ask, but feared she knew the answer: "Had you proposed to Edwina? Even discussed marriage at all?"

"Not as such, but Edwina made it clear that she wanted a family – a husband, children – that sort of thing. She was worried about her maternal instincts but thought I would be a good father because her patients brightened when they saw me. I did nothing unusual – a bit of reading, explaining how the medicine worked, any distraction from their misery. Edwina thought my voice soothed the children.

"Oh, Martin, you would be a good father," Ruth encouraged him.

"I'm not certain. Do you remember David Estilow, the boy from New Zealand who was in the chess group at Tonbridge?

"Was he the dark haired chap whose mother was the ambassador?" Of course, Ruth remembered David. He was the only friend from Martin's school days and she often saw him at chess matches.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Estilow's in the foreign service now and rang me when he was posted to London. He married soon after university to an American woman he met in Washington. They had four children in a few years; she was an only child and fancied a large family. David said it was like living in a tsunami, and he was overwhelmed.

"He was always quiet at school – like me – and he was thrown into chaos, never with a minute to himself. He was struggling at work to live up to his mother's reputation and at home his wife doted on the children. He took a posting in Malawi only to escape the madness for a year. Now his wife's staying in the States with the children whilst he's in London. They're not divorcing, but he can't think of another way to manage the marriage."

"Well, Martin, certainly marriage isn't for everyone. You shouldn't let David's experience colour your view of the institution."

"But you see, Aunt Ruth, I'm like David. I was forced into independence early on, had no siblings, and have never been concerned for anyone but myself. I worry that marriage wouldn't suit me either, and I'd make Edwina miserable."

"Surely you discussed this with her."

"I tried. She is such a determined woman and only said that as long as we loved each other we could sort out anything."

"Is that it, then, Martin? You didn't love her? Do you even want a family?"

As a youngster their nephew often expressed a wish for a family like the other lads at school. He thought that was one reason they found him odd. One reason he was an easy mark for the bullies. There were enough boys at St Benedict's and Tonbridge whose parents knew Margaret and Christopher Ellingham and repeated gossip about them at school. Martin had been told repeatedly by headmasters that he could not use his size to strike back at his tormenters. He must confront them with words or walk away. Martin could think of no reason to defend his parents, so he tried to walk away. Unlike Martin his schoolmates ignored the headmaster and pummeled him for his inability to fit in. Be one of them.

"Yes, of course, a family would be good. It's just that I'm not certain about Edwina as a mother. She wouldn't want to stop working. She could do fewer rota – many of the female doctors do – but I'd want her at home with the child whilst I worked. My salary is enough, and I have saved quite a bit. There's no need for her to work any longer."

Now it was Ruth who must control her temper before responding. "Martin you do understand that women are perfectly capable of working and having children? Perhaps you could stay at home with the children whilst Edwina works. Her NHS salary must be near yours. You are quite good at caring for patients, and you've said the children responded to you."

"Don't be ludicrous, Ruth. You're the one who argues that most of your cases wouldn't be at Broadmoor if they had a mother's care."

"And a father's as well, Martin. My patients suffer more from a missing father than a lack of maternal attention. David Estilow is doing that to his children, whether he thinks so or not. I am a bit annoyed by him and really feel you must say something to him. He is damaging his children, particularly the boys, by this bit of selfishness on his part. He should not have left those children in the States. Please tell him he must arrange to visit them frequently if they are to develop a normal, healthy view of relationships."

"David's a schoolmate, and I'm a surgeon. You're the psychiatrist," now Martin was being quite huffy. Ruth recognized this behaviour when she tried to tell him what to do. She must retreat if she wanted to help him sort out his feelings over Edwina.

"Of course, you're right. David's none of my business. But it's an old-fashioned notion, even in my day, that mothers should not work. Most of my colleagues did both; I was the unusual one." Now with Russell, Ruth often mused that one day she may have a maternal role as the stepmother or grandmother, of course. But still a bit of family.

"Martin, we're talking all around the subject of whether you loved Edwina or not. It seems to me that you did not or you wouldn't have allowed this James Archer to snatch her from you. If you loved her, would you have let her go so easily? I don't believe you lack a capacity for love; it may be more that you simply did not love Edwina. Or you didn't think she could love you. Perhaps that's what her letter meant."

The sigh in response from Martin was fraught with meaning, but he wasn't about to share that meaning with Ruth.

"It's too late. No matter what her letter meant, Edwina made her choice. I'll be fine."

His defenses had renewed themselves. He allowed Ruth a small opportunity to help him, but now he was once again "fine." But Ruth was not missing this chance to counsel her nephew.

"Martin if you ever hope to marry, you must sort the issues which have dogged you for years. You are nearing 40 and that is a very vulnerable age for men. You've been avoiding your problems, but eventually they are going to overwhelm you with dire consequences. I've said this before, but you really must consider therapy, Martin.

"Martin, Martin – are you there?"

Of course not. Ruth had no idea when in the last minute he had terminated their call, but maybe losing Edwina would force him to seek help. Ruth lifted the phone again to ring Joan and dash her hopes for a wedding. Maybe her sister could help Martin. Ruth had failed him once more.

Continued . . . .


	5. Chapter 5

" _ **Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove. . . . "**_

 **Chapter 5 - Checkmate**

Perhaps there were other times when she failed Martin, but Ruth's most vivid memory was when he was 15 years of age. It was regrettable and kept them needlessly estranged for many years.

Martin was a skilled chess player, and she sometimes traveled to Tonbridge on a Saturday afternoon to watch the matches. Afterward, she would treat Martin – and occasionally David Estilow – to an early supper. Ordinarily so alike in their quietude, the two boys were quite chatty after the chess matches. Various strategies were analyzed and Ruth relished the discussions. Her game had grown rusty through lack of practise, but they were re-igniting her passion for chess

Ruth recalled a glorious summer day when end of term matches would decide the school's chess champion. Both Martin and David were among the top competitors, and Ruth had reserved a table at their favourite restaurant to either celebrate victory or mourn their losses. The campus was thick with parents eager to witness their sons' participation in chess, rugby, or cricket. Refreshment marquees were scattered about and the air was filled with festive voices. Ruth smiled and nodded to parents as she walked across the fields to the academic hall where chess was underway. She tried to ignore their less-than-hushed comments: "It's the aunt. Those two never make an effort for the boy. Little wonder he's an odd duck."

Inside the hall, Ruth counted 32 students bent over boards containing 64 squares. Nervous silence filled the room as did that pungent odor emitted by boys in the midst of their teenage years. David's mother patted the chair next to her and proclaimed: "This place reeks! You're a physician, Ruth, why do the boys smell so?"

Ruth was always surprised that Veronica Estilow held a diplomatic post, given her candour and talkative nature. Perhaps if she provided a good explanation, Ruth could enjoy the matches in peace.

"There are several theories, Veronica. But today I suspect it's a combination of excreted hormones and perspiration. They must be terribly nervous. It may help the competitors if we allow them to settle into their games. I'm quite anxious to observe, and our quiet will help." Her pointed comments seemed to have an effect on her companion, who only raised an eyebrow in response.

Over the next few hours, a few games ended in a draw when a checkmate could not be forced. Most of the competitors were able to escape the ignominy of stalemate by placing an opponent's king into check. Eventually there were six competitors, and Martin and David were still in the pack. Minutes later, David Estilow stood and extended his hand in defeat to a Sixth Form Australian who was Martin's nemesis.

David's mother had left to make a phone call, and he slumped next to Ruth, muttering "I'm such a dongi losing to that emu shagger." Ruth had gotten somewhat accustomed to David's colourful New Zealand vocabulary, and she rolled her eyes when he and Martin lapsed into the Kiwi slang difficult for their schoolmates to de-cypher.

"Never mind, David. You promoted your pawn to a queen very nicely. The other lad was only slightly better at controlling the center of the board. Your matches were well played. You should be proud."

"Thanks, but I'm just not into it today. I'm worried about my mate Ellingham. He's _pamamae_ with his _matua_ and _whaereere_."

"It's very clever using Maori words, David, but I've no idea of what you're saying," Ruth couldn't resist tweaking the lad.

"Oh, it's the usual. Chris, the piss, and Mag, the hag, won't let Mart visit his Auntie Joan. What munters. Ellingham's really brassed off.

"Watch your language, young man!" David's mother had returned and playfully tousled his hair before taking a seat next to him. "You lost to the Aussie, did you? We've got to give them a little bit – we're so superior to them in every other way." She hugged David and looked toward Ruth: "Martin's still in it I see. My money's on him. I've never seen any boy with that level of concentration."

"Yes," Ruth agreed, "it was my father's gift to him."

Each of Martin's hour long matches had ended in a win rather than a draw, and he moved mechanically from one opponent to the next, rarely casting eyes away from his algebraic chess notations or the board. Now his opponent - a Sixth Former who was last year's champion - rose in defeat. "Well done, Ellingham. You executed the Boden's Mate perfectly. I didn't reckon you were going for it until a minute ago. Now go show the bloody Australian that you English rule the chess empire."

"Thank you, Kumar," Martin looked up only for a bit to acknowledge the good grace of the student he had de-throned. The deciding game awaited.

"Can someone bring in a plastic cushion for Ellingham," his opponent motioned toward Martin. "We all know he's a bedwetter." Before a shocked Ruth could react, Veronica Estilow cried, "Bad form that. Call the match, arbiter." Those who had heard the comment nodded their heads, and the arbiter hurried to the table.

"Not necessary," Martin spoke quietly. "I am quite ready for Mr. Reeder."

Ruth pressed her lips together both embarrassed for Martin but proud of his response. She pitied the poor lad who would insult an Ellingham. Her father had taught Martin not only to concentrate but to go for the win.

In less than an hour, Martin had achieved victory with a series of brilliant moves that isolated his opponent's King. The reigning champion could not proceed and had to suffer the humiliation of being forced into a resign. Martin stood first, offering his hand to Mr. Reeder, as the group quietly applauded. Ruth noticed a gleam in her nephew's eyes, as the Aussie winced at Martin's overly firm handshake. Father would indeed be proud of him.

After the head master awarded the trophies, Martin finally joined their little group. Veronica Estilow threw her arms around Martin and shrieked: "You showed that twit!" David followed with a less effusive handshake, and Ruth waited for Martin to acknowledge her with a simple "Hello, Aunt Ruth. Thank you for coming." His voice quavered as he added: "It meant a great deal to me." Ruth could not hold back herself or her tears, as she embraced him wholeheartedly, and – for once – Martin did not shrink from her.

Veronica Estilow wondered at the boys' smell, but Ruth wondered at their capacity for food. Soon after being shown to their table at Marroccos, two large bowls of cannellini soup and a basket of bread were placed before Martin and David. By the time Ruth had a second sip of Chianti, it seemed the soup plates were empty and the basket held one lone crust of bread. Veronica had dipped into the bread, but not to the extent of the two lads.

An immense platter of assorted pasta arrived for the four to share along with an even larger basket of bread splashed with parmesan cheese and garlic. Martin gallantly served what Ruth thought were satisfactory portions to her and Veronica, and the boys pounced on the remainder. Never one for silence, Veronica gamely tried to carry on conversation with the table. Martin and David responded with pasta muffled, "yeses" and "rights."

"Veronica, I'm afraid I'll have to supply dinner chat tonight. The boys seem otherwise occupied – possibly for the next five minutes – but food seems to be their focus at the moment. Does the school even feed the lot?"

"Good Ruth, this gives us a chance to talk about Martin's parents. David said they won't permit him to visit his aunt and uncle in Cornwall. They've come up with some cockamamie excuse, but it's only to punish the boy. He's at the top range in all his classes and has now won the chess championship. David's told me he's terribly bullied as well and rises above it. He needs a chance to refresh himself in the country. Can you do anything Ruth?"

"No, Mrs. Estilow, that's not necessary." Martin had finally lifted his head from the meal. "There's no need for me to visit relatives in Cornwall. Please don't interfere with my parents. It will only be worse. I can manage."

"Martin, I had no idea until David told me. Why won't they allow you to visit Joan? Surely it's not the cost. You have money from your grandfather's trust, and I can easily approve the expenditure. Do you want me to talk to your father?"

"No, Aunt Ruth, it's settled."

"What's it like then on the farm, Martin." Veronica Estilow exercised her diplomatic skill in drawing out the reticent chess champion."

Martin pushed about the bit of pasta remaining on his plate, eyes downcast. "It's the best, Mrs. Estilow. When I'm there I can wander through the fields as I please. Uncle Phil's dogs go along with me and herd the sheep like nothing you've ever seen. I collect eggs each morning for Auntie Joan, and you get over the smell quickly. I weed the veg patch or help with the watering if there's been no rain. But there's usually plenty of that. Down near the lake, I pick wild berries and help my aunt macerate them for jam. Last time, I cooked breakfast and made dinner with the fish from the lake. Uncle Phil filleted them in seconds – he's a better surgeon than father."

As Martin continued to describe life at Havenhurst, his head rose and he became very animated. Even David stopped eating to hear Ellingham's tale of Cornwall. Ruth had not seen Martin this happy outside the company of his grandfather. The academic and chess success were not as important to her nephew as a chance to take part in the simple farm life Phil and Joan provided. Ruth was determined that this summer Martin would return to Cornwall.

Midday Monday, she rang her brother's home hoping to catch Margaret alone. The housekeeper reported that Mrs. Ellingham was in the garden with Matthew, the artist making preliminary sketches for her portrait. She could not be disturbed. The next evening Margaret called Ruth at the flat and with not even a "hello," asked "what is it you want?"

"Good evening to you as well, Margaret." There was no love lost between the two, but Ruth would not indulge her sister-in-law's petty behaviour. Ruth would not make idle chat either: "I understand you and Christopher will not permit Martin to visit Joan in Portwenn. The boy has done quite well and won the school's chess championship. If it's a question of money, father's trust will provide what is needed."

"Oh, the trust, is it? The bloody, bloody trust. You mean the money you stole from us to enrich that little brat. I gave the old bastard an heir, and got nothing for my trouble. It's out of the question. I want Matthew to be with me in London this summer."

"You mean, Martin – don't you – not Matthew," Ruth offered. It was clear the artist Matthew was occupying Margaret's mind more than her own son.

"Yes, of course. I've nothing more to say. Ring your brother, and he'll tell you the same."

"Where is Christopher this evening?"

"I've no idea. He may be at his stuffy club or in a whore's bed. Neither matters to me."

For once, Christopher was in a more appropriate spot: the surgical ward at St. Bart's. He had – in his words – "just knifed a big one" and was awaiting his patient's accolades. Equally nasty, Christopher asked Ruth "What do you want?"

"I understand that you and Margaret won't allow Martin to visit Joan this summer. Is there anything I can do to change your mind?" The direct approach sometimes worked with her brother.

"Fifty thousand pounds," he quickly responded. "Give me fifty thousand pounds and the sniveler can go to his auntie. Otherwise, he stays in London for the summer term."

"I don't have that sort of money. It'll cost only a few pounds for the train fare from Paddington to Bodmin Parkway. Phil will fetch him from there. If you don't want to pay the money, I will authorise Martin's trust to release the funds. Perhaps a little pocket money as well."

"Have the trust authorize fifty thousand pounds for me, and he may go. Or you pay it. It doesn't matter to me."

"This is absurd, Christopher. Why are you punishing the boy. He's done well at school and deserves a bit of fun."

"Those are my terms, Ruth. Incidentally, I've asked a detective inspector from the Met to make certain you stay away from Martin. Come near the boy, and I'll charge you with moral turpitude. There's something unseemly about a spinster aunt drinking with two 15 year olds. Several of my colleagues said you were all over Martin and his little friend at Marroccos. Completely untoward, Ruth. Although it doesn't surprise me. Look at what you did to poor Johnny Myrick.

"Fifty thousand pounds, Ruth. Or go to hell and take Joan with you."

Ruth closed her eyes and realized that Christopher had placed her in checkmate with Martin. There was nothing that could be done for him. She had failed Martin – failed him terribly.

Continued . . .

 **Author's Note** : With apologies to my faithful reader, Fanficfan71, for any slur against the noble country of Australia or her citizens.


	6. Chapter 6

_**We're Both of Us Beneath our Love,**_

 _ **We're Both of Us Above**_

 **Chapter 6 – A Proper Funeral for Joan**

Ruth looked up from her hands, stiff from clasping the car's wheel, as she recalled the events leading to her long estrangement from Martin. As with Joan, their brother had threatened Ruth with unfortunate consequences if she did not stay away from his son.

Tired from the daily battles of Broadmoor and more than a little depressed, Ruth had acquiesced to Christopher's demands. Nothing could be done but abandon her nephew to his callous parents. She and Joan commiserated over how effectively their brother had removed Martin from their lives. It was if he had sliced off a tumor with his surgeon's scalpel, leaving the two sisters terribly distraught over their loss.

Ruth remained abreast of Martin's activities through Veronica Estilow, who tried to provide a bit of familial support. Christopher knew better than to interfere with New Zealand's ambassador to the Court of Saint James and made no attempt to prise Martin away from the mother and son.

That ended with Martin's completion of Sixth Form College and David's departure for university in New Zealand. With Martin now beginning three years of medical studies at Oxford's Magdalen College, she and Joan hoped to revive their relationship with him.

Sally Hocking's niece, Olivia, was in the same college at Oxford and supplied an address for Martin's rooms. At Christmas the two aunts posted cards with carefully worded notes to their nephew. The cards were not returned, nor were they acknowledged by Martin. Veronica Estilow received a brief greeting from him, noting that his studies were absorbing and left no time for chess.

Ah, that was it, Ruth re-assured Joan. Martin was simply too busy. Give him time, they comforted each other. He would come round. As months passed, they learned of Martin only through Olivia who, like him, had gone on to St. John's for the final three years of training. When Martin finally wrote to Ruth, it was only to notify her that his medical studies were completed and funds were no longer needed from the Henry Ellingham trust.

Ruth seized this somewhat formal notice as an opportunity to contact Martin with an invitation for tea. In the time she last saw him at age 15, he had changed dramatically. His tall, lank body had filled in, and he had lost any hint of the boyish features she and Joan so loved. His personality had been altered as well. Still quiet, but now brusque, humourless and even a bit testy, Martin snapped at the beleaguered girl who brought the wrong spoon for his tea. No apology was made despite Ruth's subtle mention of proper manners.

The meeting was less of a catch up between an aunt and her cherished nephew and more of an accountancy report on how allocated funds had been used. Martin presented papers containing marks and reports from his studies at Tonbridge, Magdalen and St. John's. Grandfather Ellingham's money had been well spent by educating a new MBBS who would soon become a pre-registration house officer at St. Thomas's.

That evening Ruth puzzled over Martin's grim manner with Joan in what was the first, but certainly not the last, of their conversations about his behaviour. More recently, Joan had been almost apologetic as she kept Ruth up-to-date on Martin's life in Portwenn, particularly his relationship with this Louisa. Today, Ruth would finally meet the women who presented Martin with a child only a few days ago. She must get on with it.

Ruth steadied herself as her cramped right hand released the door lever, and she was thrust into the reality of Joan's funeral. She was immediately taken by views of the sand dunes and sea until she spied the funeral cortege wending its way along the narrow beach road. The black hearse was followed closely by a large grey sedan, likely Martin's car. Joan complained that he would not buy a car more suitable for the rough roads of Cornwall. The sisters wondered if Martin kept his Lexus as a last attachment to his old life in London, just as he had not adopted the sturdy clothing more practical for Portwenn's unsettled weather.

Ruth stood silently apart from the large gathering in the courtyard, watching the small procession make its way to Saint Winwaloe Church. When it arrived, the mourners fell silent. Seven men walked slowly forward to receive Joan's coffin, bearing a spray of flowers likely from her gardens. Before they reached the hearse, Martin nearly leapt from his car, ordering everyone about. His grief had taken the form of anger which brought color to his haggard face.

Ruth had last seen Martin a few months ago, following his interview for the vascular surgery posting at St. Thomas's. Almost ebullient, but of course a controlled ebullience, Martin told Ruth that he had beaten his haemophobia curse and was ready to return to the firmament of London's surgical stars. A very different Martin now bustled about, shouting at anyone in his way. Ruth must do something or he would make a shambles of Joan's funeral.

As Ruth walked toward him, a pretty, dark haired woman left the car carrying a swaddled baby. She reached Martin first and took his hand, which seemed to calm him. Trying to help, Ruth looked up at her nephew and offered an abbreviated "condolences and all that" to remind him that he was an Ellingham and emotional displays at funerals were simply not done.

Martin took a deep breath and introduced Ruth to the woman: "Aunt Ruth, this is Louisa, Louisa Glasson. She's, uh, she's the mother of the child."

"Our child, Martin, our child," the woman weakly responded.

"Yes, that's right. Now let's crack on with this. I've meetings this afternoon. Auntie Ruth, you go through with Louisa, Miss Glasson. I'll make certain the undertaker has everything sorted."

A more subdued Martin joined the pallbearers, only one of whom Ruth recognized. It was Phil Pratt, husband of Joan's dear friend, Helen, who had died a year or so ago. Joanie was convinced her death was caused by the shock of discovering Phil with his lover, Tony. But the two men came round and were good neighbours to Joan.

Ruth urged Louisa to take the baby into the small church, and she would stay with Martin. The undertaker turned from Martin and began to shift the men about. "Okay then, lads, Phil and Tony are tall and solid – you two at the front please. Al, you and the constable are the youngest, heft the middle bit. Roger and Kenny you'll take the end. Bert, you're to carry the candle and follow the vicar. Okay lads to the count of three – on your shoulders we go.

"Doc you and your Auntie Ruth enter the church ahead of us. I'm sorry to say, I haven't seen you since Phil Norton's funeral, Miss Ellingham. Joan, she were a lovely. She's taken a piece of our hearts to heaven with her, that she has."

Ruth took Martin's arm and could feel the tension enervating his body. She squeezed his elbow in an effort to reassure him, and he jumped as if shot with electricity. Martin stiffly walked her to join Louisa who was starting at the altar, tears wetting her face. Given Martin's antics, Ruth worried that the tears were not solely for Joan. Not one for physical comforting, she could only pat the young woman's arm and wish someone were there to do the same for her. Russell, her darling, lovely Russell and now Joanie – both gone. Ruth had never felt more alone in the world and only pulled herself back by focusing on the pallbearers.

To their credit, the six men carried Joan's coffin slowly down the aisle to the majestic tempo of "Jerusalem," with Blake's appropriate reference to England's green mountains. The coffin was carefully shifted to the bier and the rotund man placed the candle at its foot. Sprinkling the coffin with water, the vicar intoned the first prayer and a short verse of scripture ending: "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted."

Then the vicar invited those to come forward to remember Joan Norton. Martin rushed to the altar and quickly mounted the four steps to the oak pulpit. Three sentences into his eulogy, Ruth wondered if she should shout as Veronica once did at the chess tournament: "Bad form that!" This wasn't a memory of Joan but a condemnation of her life in the form of a scolding lecture to her mourners. She turned as Louisa muttered: "Oh no, no. Please not this. Make him stop."

Ruth again patted her arm and whispered: "There, there, my dear. He's grief stricken. We must forgive him."

The horrified look on Louisa's face was Ruth's first hint that this woman, who Joan insisted loved Martin, had no idea of her nephew. Not good, not good at all.

For as long as her brief exchange took, Martin ended his eulogy and returned to the pew. His face was red and covered in perspiration. Ruth could not imagine what his pulse would register at this moment. This was a man in pain.

Ruth was distracted by a sharp, determined thwacking against the slate floor. All eyes turned to see Joan's friend, Muriel Steel, her metal walking stick beating a tattoo as she limped toward the altar. The groan that escaped Martin's chest caught the attention of those nearby, and Ruth noticed a few smiles.

"We come today to mourn my boon companion of many years, Joan Norton, another London girl wise enough to marry a Cornish lad. Joan's nephew, our own Doc Martin, said no one could speak of Joan. But we never follow the doctor's orders, now do we?"

The tension that filled the church lifted as widespread tittering greeted Muriel's remarks. Laughter was repeated throughout her eulogy as she recalled how she, Helen Pratt and Joan had thrown themselves into the farming and fishing life of Portwenn. Sorting out the Women's Institute, jumble sales at St. Peters, and aid to children. Ruth knew a little of what Joan had accomplished in Cornwall, but Muriel revealed a woman whose life was filled with hard work, difficult times and a compassion for others. This was the Joan of Portwenn, and Ruth thought it fitting that she should speak of Joan as well.

Martin had been angry with her on other occasions, and their relationship had survived. Ruth whispered to him: "Martin I would like to say a few words about Joan." He only bowed his head, seemingly resigned that he could not control the funeral – and perhaps his grief – as he had planned.

"I am Joan's sister, Ruth Ellingham," she simply began. "I've been fortunate to meet many of you over the years, most recently at the lovely party Annie and Wesse hosted for Joan's 60th birthday.

"My sister and I first came to Cornwall in the last days of the Blitz. Our brother Christopher had been sent to friends in Wales, but as the bombing grew closer to our home, mother, Joan and I moved house to Havenhurst Farm. I was very much a city girl, but baby Joan toddled after Uncle Dick and Auntie Morag as if she had been born on the farm."

Ruth continued in this vein, describing her brilliant sister who loved Phil Norton, her friends, Cornwall and her nephew Martin. "Joan was especially excited by the birth of Martin's child. She rang me from Portwenn, simply over the moon with the news of his birth. It is the cruelest irony that our grand-nephew was born the day Joan died. She never had the chance to cuddle him, and he will never experience the grace and generosity of her love.

Had it not been for the Lupus draining her tear ducts, Ruth would have been in a puddle like many in the congregation. But she was able to soldier on and ended with a few stanzas from Charlotte Bronte's poem on the death of her sister, Anne:

 _ **"There's little joy in life for me,**_

 _ **And little terror in the grave;**_

 _ **I've lived the parting hour to see**_

 _ **Of one I would have died to save**_

 _ **Although I knew that we had lost**_

 _ **The hope and glory of our life;**_

 _ **And now, benighted, tempest-tossed,**_

 _ **Must bear alone the weary strife."**_

Shortly into the service, Ruth realized that Martin had selected the same prayers, readings and hymns as had been used at Henry Ellingham's funeral. How touching of Martin to replicate for the disowned daughter the order of service used at her own father's funeral. Ruth looked toward the vicar: "I believe we now will sing 'All Things Bright and Beautiful,' isn't that so."

Ruth returned to her pew as the congregation sang the joyful hymn to remember Joan. Martin stood to allow Ruth to move past him and grasped her hand. She looked up to see a tear leave each eye and float to his lips. Her talk had allowed him to release a bit of his grief and begin his mourning of Joan. Good. She would not fail Martin this time.

Continued . . .


	7. Chapter 7

_**Dance me to the end of love . . .**_

 **Chapter 7 – Secrets at the Grave**

With the organ's first chords, Ruth had to swallow twice to stop the sob from passing her lips. "Morning Has Broken" ended her father's funeral as well as Russell's. Now as Joan's coffin was carried from the church, the anthem was sung for a woman who had praised every morning and spread her sunlight to many. Caught up in the hymn's verses, Ruth failed to hear the harsh whispering between Martin and Louisa Glasson. She only noticed the disturbance when he stood and hurriedly left the church.

"What is it, dear," Ruth leaned toward the young woman, noticing an odour about her - or was it the child?

"Nothing. Really it's nothing. He doesn't want to speak to anyone. Are you going on to the burial, Ruth? To the farm, to Joan's farm?"

"I suppose so. Isn't that what one does after the service. Unless of course it's a cremation. Martin said Joan's to be buried on a rise overlooking the sea. Is that right?" Ruth wasn't certain why she was babbling and put it down to the trying morning.

Instead of responding, Louisa stood, taking the baby and leaving Ruth alone in the pew. Her confusion growing, Ruth joined the crowd moving from the church. Outside, many approached her, offering sympathy, condolences and more than a few embraces which she stoically withstood.

Annie Gawls finally intervened. "Ruth are you on to Joan's for the burial? Doc Martin won't be coming, but someone from the family would be lovely. See Joan off proper and all."

"Yes. Please give me a moment, and I'll make my way there."

Martin had parked his car far from the church, and as Ruth approached he was gesturing first to Louisa and then toward the Lexus. "Don't let me stop you, Martin," the young woman sounded drained but determined. "I'm going on to Joan's. Do as you please. I'll be at the hall afterward.

"Ruth, may we come with you? The baby and me. Martin must return to the village, but I want to see Joan to her grave?"

"Certainly, my dear. Do you have one of those baby carry contraptions? I'm afraid my car's not equipped for a child."

Martin stood by silently, but Ruth could sense his annoyance and reckoned they argued over Louisa attending the burial.

"Martin, could you bring the car seat, and I'll take the bag. It's almost time for a nursing, and Ruth wants to get on to Joan's."

With one last pleading look to Louisa, Martin turned to retrieve the carrier. After securing the seat in Ruth's Mercedes, Louisa said softly "Please thank Chris Parsons for the flowers. I'll send a note shortly."

Finally breaking his silence, Martin held the car's front door for Ruth: "Follow the hearse, and you should easily reach the farm. The roadways are a bit tricky, but if you mind the signs and do a bit of Cornish negotiation, you'll be fine."

"Are you certain you won't come, Martin? You were very close to Joan."

Shaking his head, he quickly strode to the Lexus and departed before the procession got underway.

"I've changed the baby's nappy and should give him a feed. Do you mind?" The girl seemed nearly blunted in her affect, and Ruth wondered if she were suffering only from lack of sleep and baby blues. It couldn't be easy for her: delivering the baby with not even a midwife, no anaesthesia, and in a pub of all places. A smile played upon Ruth's lips thinking of her father's horror at his great-grandson being born in a pub. To Henry Ellingham that would be almost as bad as a manger.

Ruth was so intent on following the intricate route, she was relieved that Louisa felt no need for chat. Little could be heard from the car's rear seat, except her murmuring to the baby as he suckled. Soon after they merged to the A30, Ruth saw through the mirror that she was settling the child into his seat and adjusting her belt.

"I'll just have a bit of rest. Baby didn't sleep last night, and I'm a little knackered from the funeral."

"Shall I drop you in the village then?" Ruth wasn't certain how the woman could move about so easily less than a week postpartum. She seemed physically strong and must be emotionally solid to sustain a relationship with a man as difficult as Martin.

"No, very kind of you. Martin really does have a meeting this afternoon with Chris Parsons about Diana Dibbs. - she's the GP who was to take over his surgery. A bit of a disaster that one. Now they must find a locum so that Martin can go on to London."

On to London! Joan was right. Their nephew was still planning to take the post at St. Thomas's and had no idea what would become of the mother and child. It was not her place, so she would try to keep the conversation even.

"Oh, Chris Parsons. I haven't seen him and Olivia for years. Their children must be – what – 8 and 10 years?"

"Dunno. When I was lay advisor to the PCT, I knew Dr. Parsons but not his wife. That's how Martin and I met. I was on his interview panel."

"Yes, Joan mentioned that." Joan had mentioned a good bit more. She had plotted endlessly with Ruth on ways to bring Martin together with the school teacher, as she initially thought them an ideal match. "So suited for each other, Ruth. He stares after her, and she goes out of her way to be in his path. I'm certain she's the right woman for Martin!"

Ruth didn't remind Joan that she felt the same way about Edwina and was happy she hadn't. Soon Joan began to grouse about the couple: "Chalk and cheese. Those two can't get along. They're as bloody stubborn as our crap brother. Why can't he simply change his gruff manner and have a go at her? And she could be a bit more understanding, if you ask me."

"What else did Joan say?" Louisa had caught Ruth's eye in the rear view mirror.

This was not the time to recall their conversations, so Ruth tried to change the subject. "Little really. I know she was very concerned about you and the baby. She tried her best to help."

"Joan was very kind. I'll miss her terribly." Louisa's voice caught on the next words: "Not being able to see the baby. She wanted so little. Only to hold him. So sorry. Martin's right. I'm too emotional. I must bear up." She brought a wrinkled tissue to her eyes: "I'll be fine. Let me rest for a minute."

Ruth's mouth quivered, and she couldn't speak either as emotions threatened to overcome her once more. Focusing on the hearse helped, and the girl had settled in for a rest, so no need for talk.

As an antidote to the melancholy filling the car, Ruth tried to fill her mind with the minutiae of her journey rather than memories of the newborn Martin she took from Christopher at St. Mary's. Margaret had a difficult delivery and was to remain in hospital for a week. The baby was large and healthy and was brought to his grandparents' home, allowing Margaret to recover first at hospital and then at her home – alone. Just as Christopher said she wanted.

Dorothy Ellingham was overjoyed to welcome her grandchild and established the baby and his nurse in a small suite adjoining her rooms. Mum had not yet been diagnosed with the Lupus that would later ravage her and was full of vitality and love for this unexpected grandchild. Joan's efforts to bear a child had failed repeatedly. The seven letters she sent to Ruth describing each of her miscarriages were among the saddest missives Ruth ever read. She kept each of the letters telling of the nieces and nephews she would never know - the lost children Joan would never cuddle and love.

Oh bother! This was a bit too maudlin. She must remember the good things in Joan's life. Always close, Joan desperately wanted Ruth to end her days in Cornwall alongside her sister. Ruth thought that a wise decision with Russell gone. Her professional life was nearly over – a book or two needed writing, but that could be done anywhere. Russell had even managed a few chapters during their five weeks in Whitehead. Ruth had never lived so long with a man and found the daily habits endearing. When Russell later suggested they marry, Ruth readily agreed. They could visit Joan in Portwenn - even have a cottage nearby where his daughters might bring their families on holiday. Russell was all for it, and for a while Ruth had a very different vision of her future.

Now as she left the A30 and carefully maneuvered onto the A39, the young woman woke: "So sorry. Did I drop off? Did the baby wake?"

"No dear. He's been a lamb. Not a peep. Breastfeeding is best." Oh, why did she throw out that aphorism? She sounded like a NHS granny dispensing advice to a teenage mum.

Either through intent or weariness, Louisa ignored her comment and offered directions: "We're nearly there. Continue on to the next roundabout for the sign to the B3314 and turn to the left. That will lead to the farm."

Ruth had lost sight of the hearse for part of the journey, but now saw it directly ahead, making its way up the gravel road to Havenhurst. At a small wooden post, the hearse turned right toward the sea.

It stopped at a freshly drug grave, and a sadness overwhelmed Ruth. This would be where her sister would rest - silent, cold and alone. Not in the warm kitchen where the two might begin each morning with a chat over tea and end with a bit of sherry to aid their sleep.

"Martin dug the grave," the girl pointed toward the plot. "He wouldn't let anyone help. He knew exactly where Joan should be buried. This is where she brought him as a boy to watch sailboats make their way to sea."

"What else has Martin said about his time with Joan?"

"Little really. Martin doesn't talk about his childhood. He said that it's over and has nothing to do with his . . . " Here the girl paused. "Let me just give the baby a check and we can get on with it."

Of course, Martin had probably said little about his childhood. His memories were too painful no matter how much Ruth, her parents and Joan tried to allay the misery caused by Christopher and Margaret. In the end, they were responsible for Martin and the many issues that haunted him. He could have as easily been a patient at Broadmoor rather than a top surgeon. He suffered the same childhood trauma as Ruth's patients. He was only in a different economic circumstance.

Ruth opened the rear door for Louisa: "Could you take the baby please. Still a bit sore." Ruth reached for the child and had her first full look at him. So many emotions had captured her today that she was ill-prepared for the feeling of wonder and tenderness that suffused her. She couldn't stop smiling looking at this precious reproduction of Martin. It was as if she were again exiting St. Mary's with her tiny nephew tucked at her shoulder. "I'll hold him now," Louisa held out her arms, and Ruth reluctantly handed him back, much as she had done when Margaret wrested baby Martin from her. Perhaps sensing her reluctance, the girl smiled at Ruth: "Isn't he a dear? Did Martin look like this as a baby?"

Unable to speak, such strong emotions clotting her throat, Ruth nodded and took the girl's arm to guide her along the rough path. They were joined by scores of mourners who had left trucks and cars askew in the field. The pall bearers gently lowered Joan's coffin into the grave, and the vicar tossed a clot of earth onto the coffin. He then recited the traditional: "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

A man whose name Ruth would never learn stepped forward and read in a melodious voice the beloved Cornish poem "Farewell Aggie Weston." Wesse appeared next to Ruth and handed her a posey of Valerian, the vibrant red flowers native to Cornwall, and nodded toward the grave. Ruth walked forward and first gently dropped a bit of soil onto Joan's coffin and then the flowers. Annie and Muriel joined them, heads bowed for a minute. Then the three women repeated Ruth's actions, but each of their flowers was a bit different. Taking a white rose from the undertaker, Louisa cast it into the grave: "From Martin," she spoke clearly, "and from me and your grand-nephew."

After the vicar recited the Lord's Prayer, the group dispersed for the short journey to Portwenn.

"I'm going to the car," Louisa murmured to Ruth, her face once again bearing signs of tears as she retreated across the field.

Wesse, Annie and Muriel linked arms and circled Ruth as they watched the six pall bearers cover the coffin with the moist earth. Ruth had never witnessed an actual burial and it all seemed surreal. One minute Joan was describing her great-nephew's birth and a few days later she was in a box covered by dirt. Ruth felt faint at the thought of it. It took only 10 minutes or so for the grave to be filled and for the young chap, Al, to tamp in the soil. The undertaker brought a few baskets of flowers and placed them on the mounded earth. "Thank you lads. Let's get on to the reception and leave the ladies to it."

"Ruth, we all of us loved Joan, and we'll miss her. Please come on to the hall. It would mean more than a little to the villagers. We are all Joan's family, but you are her sister," Annie extended her hands to Ruth.

"What's to be done about this, then?" Muriel Steel jabbed her walking stick at a spot near the head of Joan's grave. "Leave it, Muriel. There's nothing to do," Wesse cautioned her friend.

"Will this be her stone or will there be something proper – more fitting," Muriel again struck the spot which resonated with the sound of metal hitting rock.

"Of course, we'll have a proper grave marker for her," Ruth could not understand Muriel's odd comments, but Joan did say she was becoming a bit batty. "Good, because there should be something of Phil here as well. I know this is where Joan wanted to be buried, but still."

Her curiosity piqued, Ruth joined Muriel to see what her stick was striking. There among the wild grasses was a piece of dark stone and on it was carved what seemed to be a boat – a sailboat. Puzzled, she turned to the women. "What is this? It looks like a block of granite with a sailboat figure etched into it?" The three friends exchanged the type of look she had seen many times: "Does she know? Should we tell her?"

Then it occurred to Ruth what the stone symbolized and why Joan chose the burial spot. No need to make her friends uncomfortable. "Is this from John," she simply asked. The women exhaled simultaneously, relieved of their burden. Joan _**had**_ told her sister. "Is this why Joanie wanted to be buried here?"

Three heads nodded together, and Muriel spoke first: "She loved him Ruth. Phil was her husband and helpmate, but John was her love. We told her to go off with him, but she wouldn't leave Phil, or the farm or little Marty. When your bastard brother took Martin from Joan, it nearly killed her. First John, then the nephew she adored. We told Doc Martin to bury her here – but we thought he'd never do it. He came last night and dug the grave himself, ready to give Joan the only thing she ever asked of him. "

Ruth would later learn that preparing her grave was not the only thing Joan asked of Martin. Not by a long shot.

Continued . . . .

 **Author's note about "Cornish negotiation":** When two drivers approach a narrow lane from opposite sides, they use hand and eye signals to determine who proceeds first. With thanks to Mark from Port Isaac Shuttle Service (PISS) for the phrase and explanation.


	8. Chapter 8

" _ **Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone . . . "**_

 **Chapter 8 – The Legacy**

Annie, Wesse and Muriel slowly walked away from Joan's grave, allowing Ruth time alone with her sister.

"Right then Joan, you've left me as well. Left Martin to me - and now the child. What's to be done with them? I've no idea of babies! And this Louisa Glasson. She seemed a bit simpler when we discussed her. The village schoolteacher who somehow feel in love with our Martin. The rare woman who could pierce the veil. Now the babe to carry on the infamous Ellingham name." Balling her hands as much as the hideous Lupus allowed, Ruth wanted to beat out her sadness over Joan's death. The loss, the horrible terrible loss of her brilliant sister. Little wonder people went mad. She thought she might be mad after Russell's death, but the loss of Joan was far worse. Far worse.

"Buck up my dear," she could almost hear Joan say. "You've had your wallow in self-pity. Life goes on, and you must go with it or be dragged along. The choice is yours. But as for me I don't wish to be dragged."

Chin held high, Ruth turned from the grave with one final sigh and marched toward her car. There she found the new mother asleep along with the baby cradled in its seat. She would go on to Portwenn, suffer through the reception and then retire early to her room at the local pub. Tomorrow, she'd travel to London, leaving the sorrow behind, and do what she did best: get on with it. No one ever accused Ruth Ellingham of anything less. It was what mother expected and father demanded.

Minutes later as she reached the roadway leading to Portwenn, the girl awoke. "Oh, I'm afraid I nodded off again. Do you need directions to the hall? We're quite close." Ruth saw through the mirror that she was straightening her black dress and trying to smooth her hair. She was so pretty that neither was necessary. An enviable woman whose good features never needed the tweaking Ruth and Joan required to manage presentable. Leave it to Martin to find a beauty just as his father did. Well, at least physically beautiful. As for the rest, Margaret was utter rubbish. Christopher as well. As least she didn't have to see either of them today. Those two she could not bear.

"No, I recall the way. Little changes here, does it? Not like London. I was in the South End a few weeks ago and there's nothing to recognize."

"A friend from the village designed a park in Soutwark, part of the Olympics project. Actually, he's Muriel son, Danny."

"Well, I certainly hope he takes after his mother. She's quite the force of nature."

"No, Danny's not that, not at all. More like his father, I'd say. Did Martin mention him?"

Well, the girl should know about the Ellinghams now that she had a son from the bloodline. "I hadn't heard from Martin in quite a while. When he rang the other day, I was shocked but soon realized it was only to tell me of Joan's death. He was quite angry with me when he left London – me and many others, I suppose. Anyone who tried to help him. It's one of the great mysteries of London medicine why Martin Ellingham refused treatment in favour of life as a back-of-beyond GP. You must know. I'm certain he's discussed it with you endlessly."

Louisa's hesitation confirmed Ruth's earlier suspicion that this woman knew nothing of Martin. Joan was right. With only a superficial relationship, he had asked Louisa to marry him, and she agreed. What must be wrong with her?

"Of course, certainly. We speak of it constantly. He has gotten help for the blood thing. For the haemophobia. That's what you mean, right?"

"Yes, the blood thing as you call it. But it's much more than that. His parents, loss of his grandfather, bullying, bedwetting - the list is long. Edwina fits in there as well. What has he told you?

Again, the hesitation but Ruth saw in the mirror Louisa's eyes twitch as she feigned knowledge: "A good bit. Yes, a good bit."

"Don't lie, my dear. But if you do, do it with conviction."

"I'm not lying! Martin has mentioned those things. Or at last Joan did. If you mean Edith Montgomery, I knew about her as well."

"No, I mean Edwina. Edwina Smallwood. She married another chap and it left Martin terribly shaken. Joan didn't agree, but from my psychiatric perspective, I think that was the beginning of Martin's downfall. He had ignored his problems for so many years and thought his future was set with Edwina. He'd have a family and be normal. The many issues that had been roiling about in his psyche for so long finally emerged.

"The early 40s are a delicate time for men, particularly brilliant men. Some fall prey to schizophrenia, others depression. In Martin's case, his childhood problems got the better of him just as he reached the peak of his profession. Surgery's loss is Portwenn's gain, wouldn't you say. Yours as well."

"Why did Edwina Smallwood marry the other man?" Ruth had sparked her interest. Women would be women. Of course, she must be curious about Edwina. Didn't she have to stifle her questions about Beatrice initially? There came a time when Russell would have talked to her about his late wife, but she really didn't care to know at that point. One benefit of maturity.

Louisa hadn't reached that level as she fiddled with her fringe and made a valiant effort at nonchalance: "So was Martin engaged to Edwina? We were engaged. Martin and I were engaged. That's why we had the baby, you see."

"I didn't realize engagements lead to babies," Ruth wryly noted. "Will there be another attempt at a wedding?"

"It's a little complicated . . . the wedding. Martin and me. The baby. Sorry, what were you saying about Edwina," Ruth almost chuckled at the girl's persistence.

"Only that she may have been one of the contributory factor's to Martin's haemophobia. Her dropping him and marrying another man so quickly."

"What do you mean by quickly? A few months, a year . . . "

Oh bother, why had she mentioned Edwina Smallwood? She should have kept her theory about Martin's haemohobia to herself – shared only with Joan. She could easily summarize the relationship and satisfy Louisa's curiosity.

"Martin brought Edwina to Christmas lunch a number of years ago. They seemed to get on well – both quiet, both doctors at St. Thomas's, both single children, obviously intelligent. Martin told me that she wanted to marry him, but in the end she sent him a letter saying she realized he didn't love her. She would simply move on. Quite sad, really. I suspect Martin did care for her, but not enough for a decent marriage. She married a journalist instead. I understand they have several children now. That was something Martin did want – children. He must be thrilled with the baby. Joan was certainly pleased – I'm happy about the child.

"Please forgive me, Louisa. I have a tendency to overshare, and I'm not certain Martin would want you to know about Edwina."

"It's fine. Joan told me about Edith Montgomery. His girlfriend from medical school. She didn't marry him either. She went off to the States for a post – or maybe Canada. Did you know her as well?"

"No, I really didn't see anything of Martin from age 15 until he completed medical school. He never told me about this Edith, but I'm not surprised he told Joan. They were much closer."

"Yes, he even brought Edith to Portwenn to meet Joan. Apparently, the visit wasn't successful. The next year when they finished school, he wanted to marry her, but she wouldn't have it. I've wanted to ask Martin about her, but – well – you know -."

"Are you certain Martin came to Portwenn when he was in medical school?" After Christopher's threats to both Joan and herself, Ruth thought neither sister had contact with Martin for many years. Had Joan been in touch with their nephew and kept it from her? Particularly something as significant as a woman he wanted to marry?

Bloody woman, what else hadn't she told Ruth? The sadness that befell her that day was replaced by an irritation, if not anger, that Joan had not dropped Martin as she had. She'd sort this out with her nephew before leaving for London. She'd have a private chat with him tomorrow. There'd be no reason for him to know about his father's prohibition, and she could frame it as a reminiscence Joan. But she did want to know more.

As did Louisa.

"What sort of doctor was she - Edwina Smallwood? Dr. Montgomery was an obstetrician with a fertility clinic. In Truro, of course, not Portwenn."

"Edwina is a paediatric oncologist. A ghastly field of medicine, particularly so for children. She feared she was so desensitized by her profession that she wouldn't be a good mother. I didn't find that the case, but people often judge themselves harshly. We had planned to have lunch after our Christmas meeting but put it off several times. The next thing, I read in 'The Times' that Edwina had married this newspaper writer. And that was that.

"Bloody hell," a rare epithet escaped Ruth's lips, "there are no spaces in the car park. Let me drop you and the child at the hall, and I'll search out a place. You go on dear."

Looking down the lane, Ruth saw both sides lined with cars. Joan did attract a crowd. A few houses on, Ruth spotted a bright blue car leaving a wide driveway in front of two joined cottages.

"Lowering her window, Ruth asked: "Do you think it possible to park my car in your drive for a bit. I'm off to a funeral reception at the hall."

"For the veg lady?" the driver's face registered concern.

"Yes, she's my sister," Ruth ordinarily wouldn't have admitted something so personal.

"I'm off to Surrey, and I don't think my friends would mind. I'm sorry about your sister. The whole village is quite sad, really. "Juliette," the woman called "might this nice lady park her car in the drive. She's on to the funeral reception – for the veg lady – her sister."

"Of course, Ana." The small woman pulled a pale purple wrap around her shoulders against the lively sea wind. "I made a roast of her eggplant – sorry aubergine – carrots and leeks last night. We saw her at the market on Monday and were shocked when we heard she died."

"Are you American, then?" Or maybe Canadian, Ruth couldn't be sure of the accent.

"I'm from Canada but I live in the States now – just outside of Boston. My friends and I have been here this week mooching about. When we spoke to your sister, she told us anytime you wander about with no time pressure, it's called 'mooching about.' She said it was her favorite thing to do in London – I guess when she visited you. She said her sister lived in London."

"Yes, Joan and I mooched about London – but less than either of us wanted. Now it's too late," Ruth's voice caught in her throat. "Oh don't mind me. Very kind of you to let me leave the car. I'll return soon."

As she exited the Mercedes, Ruth smiled weakly at the woman in the car and her two friends standing on the cottage steps. The tall woman who sounded like another American spoke: "We were exhausted when we arrived in Portwenn – for many reasons the three of us needed this time away. I hope you don't have to race back to London and have a chance to rest in the village. We would stay here forever if we could. But the magic must stop."

As Ruth trudged up the hill to the hall, she realized that the magic may stop, yet there is no reason it cannot be rekindled. Looking toward the sea, she knew there was a bit of magic that needed rekindling between her nephew and this Louisa person if the baby was to have a suitable family.

"Joanie, you bloody woman," Ruth muttered, "Is this why you brought me back to Portwenn? Well, I'm not doing this on my own, dear sister. You may be dead, but you must help as well!"

Continued . . .


	9. Chapter 9

" _ **Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove . . ."**_

 **Chapter 9 – The Remains**

Years and years later, Ruth could still remember her mother saying it. Her voice dripping with scorn, almost vituperative: "There's no fool like an old fool." She used it liberally for anyone from the Scottish vicar, to her seamstress and – eventually - her own parents. Now Ruth was guilty of what mother hated most: being old and a fool. Minutes before, Martin had correctly diagnosed her with easily treated Sjogren's Syndrome rather than the dreaded Lupus she thought would kill her. Now she leaned against his tall frame, arms wrapped around him, overcome with relief that she was not dying – at least not yet.

His body tense, Ruth was reminded of the one time Martin returned her embrace – his schoolboy chess championship nearly 30 years earlier. Much had happened since then: the horrid estrangements - first caused by his father and then by Martin, himself. He had fled to Portwenn leaving London and his aunt behind. She was surprised when he rang, saying he would be in the city to interview for a surgical posting. Could they meet for a meal? He had only a short time but would like to see her. Ruth rearranged a filled diary to schedule lunch with her only nephew.

The news that Martin might return to surgery and London was welcome, but it seemed at odds with Joan's report about the village schoolteacher. Wasn't his former fiancée expecting a baby and determined to raise the child in Portwenn? Joan urged Ruth to use her professional skills to sort out Martin's plans for the child. She had tried everything in her arsenal of "aunt-hood" with nothing to show for it. Now it was down to Ruth.

Ruth arrived early, prepared to savour each minute with the nephew she hadn't seen for so long. Of course, he had arrived earlier, looking relaxed and self-assured. The meetings at Imperial must have gone well. Indeed, they had. Yesterday afternoon, Martin had impressed the chief executive and appointments people for nearly three hours. This morning, he spoke with various consultants and his former mentor who confirmed a specialty hiring letter would be sent shortly.

Martin somewhat excitedly told Ruth that he had let a flat near the residence he sold to redeem Havenhurst from his father. Their conversation naturally turned to Joan, and Martin was far more reassuring than expected. Ruth had been concerned not only about her sister's possible Lupus but her financial health as well. Joan begged off trips to London, pleading her duties at the farm rather than lack of funds. Yet Ruth recalled ringing Joan only to receive a message that her telephone had been switched off. A week or so later Joan called, laughing that British Telecom had mistakenly terminated her service. All was sorted now. Martin did admit that Joan was having a rough patch financially and refused any help. He had insisted on paying for her car insurance, but beyond that could do nothing.

By the time Ruth discreetly brought the conversation to his paternity predicament, Martin consulted his watch and apologized that he must be off. The locum could stay in the village no more than two days, and Martin had a full schedule of patients. With a hasty kiss on her cheek, leavened by a boyish grin, Martin dropped pound notes on the table and departed before Ruth could say: "lovely to see you."

This meeting with Martin was yesterday's lie of omission to Louisa. She didn't want to distress the woman further by mentioning Martin's near exuberance at returning to London. How could she describe the dramatic difference between her nephew's behaviour in London and his morose manner in Portwenn?

She pulled away from Martin and felt his body loosen with relief. Like Joan, she wondered how he could possibly do what was necessary to conceive a child, but pushed that thought from her mind. She owed it to Joanie to sort out the hash Martin had made of his life, beginning with his phobia.

"It's not contained, is it? The haemophobia." Ruth hoped a blunt approach would elicit the truth from Martin.

"Of course it is. I'm perfectly well. I've used self-administered techniques to control the phobia. I'm fine."

"Physician heal thyself," Ruth's arch comment riled Martin.

"Oh you're one to give advice," he huffed. "Haven't you only now admitted you self-diagnosed the Lupus Nephritis without any corroborative evidence? Not even a simple blood test."

True enough. Had she not cut her palm at the pub, Martin wouldn't have noticed her insensitivity to pain as he stitched up the wound. She could have gone on in ignorance, expecting her condition to worsen, gruesomely awaiting death. What her injured hand demonstrated more was Martin's extreme reaction to blood. He grew pale, sweaty and lost a valiant effort to control a stream of bile. But she wouldn't argue with him. Or at least not in an apparent way.

"I apologize, Martin. I'm certain the haemophobia is controlled or you wouldn't have accepted the post at Imperial. The Ellinghams are an ethical sort if nothing else. Speaking of which, Joan said Louisa is planning to stay in the village with the child while you go on to London. Is that right?"

His eyes fell from her face: "I believe so. Chris Parsons has sorted out a new GP, and the South African surgeon will leave Imperial in two months time. Then I'll move house to the Kensington flat."

"What of the child? Louisa? How will you manage with them in Portwenn and you working in London?"

"I've suggested that Louisa come to London as well. There's a second bedroom – small, but adequate for an infant. If she won't leave the village, I hope she'll allow the child to visit. We haven't registered his birth yet, but I'll claim parental responsibility."

"Yes, that's terribly important. When will you complete the registration? You need a name. And what's the surname to be?"

"I've suggested the name Henry, after grandfather. But she likes Terry, her father's name."

"Terry? A bit common, I'd say. Isn't it even Terrence or something proper?"

"No, I've met him, and he's only Terry."

"You wouldn't want Christopher, I'd imagine. Certainly, there's another more suitable name from her family. He'll be an Ellingham, I should hope."

"Not necessarily. Even if we were married, Louisa is not obliged to give him my name. It could as easily be Glasson. That's why I want to register his birth and assume parental responsibility quickly. If anything should happen to him medically, I'd have no say in his treatment. No say in anything really. Louisa could do with him as she pleased. Just as she did during the pregnancy . . . ."

Suddenly, Martin's voice broke, and his face crumbled: "God, it was awful Aunt Ruth. She wouldn't let me do anything. Only Joan. The villagers hated me even more. I was made out to be this heartless cad who was abandoning her and the child. I didn't know what to do. Staying here in Portwenn, seeing them each day but not allowed near either of them. I couldn't do it. It was painful enough before the baby was born. The mother of my child, ignoring me, refusing my help."

"There, there, Martin," Ruth reached across the desk with her uninjured hand to touch his arm. "Things seem to be sorting themselves out. You'll soon be at Imperial and living in a comfortable flat, hopefully with Louisa and the child. Your life will be restored – even better, really. You left London under a cloud, now you're taking a top of the range post at Imperial. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Uhm, nothing. Nothing will go wrong."

"If Louisa joins you in London, her circumstances will change as well. Joan said she was quite good as head of school, now she'll be with the infant rather than teaching. At least she knows London, has some friends there. Lacking that, there are the mum's groups. Those young mothers are all over Crowthorne. You can't enter a coffee shop or park without tripping over pushchairs and prams. Louisa surely understands that motherhood brings a loss of self."

"Nonsense, Aunt Ruth. Louisa will not become involved in that rubbish. You make her out to be another Olivia Parsons. She wants to teach."

"Well, who's to care for the child. Will you foist him off on a nanny as your mother did?"

"Never," Martin's vehemence startled Ruth. "Our child will be raised by his mother."

"And not his father," Ruth quietly asked.

"I'll be busy, certainly, but I will have time for my son even if only visiting him in Portwenn. I'll not be like my father, more like grandfather. He had plenty of time for me."

"But little for his own children, Martin. Like you he was an eminent surgeon, but it was to the detriment of his family. By the time you were born he was a man of achievement: a successful Harley Street practice, medical patents in England, Germany and the States which made him very wealthy, and a family he could parade out at will. The brilliant first born son, and the two plain daughters who would never dishonour the Ellingham name. If he is your role model, I pity this child and any who follow."

Martin looked shattered at Ruth's harsh description of his beloved grandfather, and she regretted her comments. Again, she reached across the desk to tap his hand but he pulled it away. It was he who changed the subject.

"Did you know that Joan left Havenhurst to you? That was her major asset and the reading of the will is only a formality. We should go into Truro tomorrow to finalize things."

"Oh bother! I don't want it. What am I to do with a farm? Bloody woman. I told her to give it to you. You've paid for half of it. Havenhurst should be yours. You could let the land to any number of farmers, and the chicken and sheep should go to market. The lake is quite worthwhile. Joan thought there was a possibility of it being used for windmills. You might investigate that bit. London is an expensive city, and NHS salaries don't compare to private patient fees. You'll need the money to even live modestly. Public school costs are outrageous. Olivia Parsons told me they looked into Saint Benedict's for Danny, and they simply could not do it. He was admitted to a good grammar school, and they're saving madly so that the three children may attend university."

"When did you speak with Olivia?"

"I presume you noticed that she and Chris were at Joan's funeral? Olivia came to the reception, and Chris joined her after your meeting. It was quite lovely catching up with them. I hadn't seen either since Sally Hocking's Boxing Day party several years ago. The three of us had a nice conversation."

"You, Chris and Olivia – good." Martin began to shuffle papers on his desk, Ruth assumed as a show of disinterest in her prattling on and a hope that she would leave.

"No, Louisa, Olivia and I. It was quite interesting. Olivia told Louisa of your boisterous behaviour in medical school and your scandalous doings afterward. I believe she may have dropped Edwina Smallwood into the mix. Louisa seemed to enjoy their chat."

"Now that's enough Aunt Ruth. Your sister is barely in her grave, and you are making merry at my expense. I, for one, am still mourning my aunt."

"Oh, please, Martin. Where _**is**_ your sense of humour? Louisa is a lovely woman and has been through a great deal in one very short week. Her life has been turned upside down. If she had a slight giggle with Olivia, you should be happy for her. When I took Louisa to the cottage, she could barely walk. I put the baby in his cot and her to bed. I hope she slept through the night and you saw to the child. She is exhausted."

"We are both exhausted. I'm trying to place baby on a schedule, but Louisa insists he needs cuddling. Nanny did not pamper me and that's why I am disciplined today."

"Well your grandmother and I surely cuddled you as did nanny. By the time we returned you to Margaret at age 3 months, you were on a schedule and awoke only once or twice during the night. Nanny was horrified that your mother insisted you be allowed to cry yourself to sleep, but she could do nothing. Father tried to reason with Christopher, but he threatened to keep you from them. He is a cruel man, Martin, as you well know. Have you told them about the baby?"

"God, no. Why would I do that? Louisa's parents know, of course, but they are only marginally better."

"Do they live here? Have they seen the child?"

"No. Didn't Joan tell you about them?"

"She only mentioned that Louisa was from the village. I assumed her parents lived nearby."

"Firstly, Louisa's mother is in Spain with her – uhm – I suppose you would say boyfriend. She left the house when Louisa was age 11. Her father's imprisoned at Channings Wood. A bit of a scoundrel. They're quite different from my parents."

Yet there are similarities, Ruth thought. "What crime did her father commit – nothing violent I should hope."

"Something to do with smuggling – I don't believe it was drugs. Maybe cigarettes or whiskey."

"Well that'll make for scintillating conversation at the Christening." Martin's eye roll indicated his disapproval of her droll remark, so Ruth pressed on.

"Is there a sibling to be Godfather or Godmother?"

"No, Louisa is a single child – like me. Chris Parsons asked if he could be the Godfather, but for a male child we'll need two. There's a chap in the village I may ask. Louisa has many friends who could be the Godmother."

"When will you have the Christening? I'd like to be there."

"We haven't discussed it yet. Louisa seems reluctant to even register the birth, so I've not mentioned the Christening. Most people around here don't bother, so she's likely to do the same."

"No Christening! That's absurd. It's almost as important as the registration."

"Many parents think registering the birth is sufficient. When infant mortality rates were high, it made sense to christen a baby. Now it's more a social event than a religious ceremony."

"You seem terribly familiar with today's mores. I'm quite impressed Martin. That sort of thing was never your forte."

"Uhm, that's right. I've had to learn a great deal – to protect my son. I want to make certain he has every advantage in life, just as I did. Louisa seems a little reluctant to follow my suggestions, but she'll realize I have the child's best interest in mind."

"Martin, you have a tendency to be a little high handed about decision making. You might want to discuss the Christening and other details with Louisa. She is the mother, and even with parental responsibility, she'll have control of the child. She seems easily upset, and you must take her concerns into account."

"Well, thank you, Aunt Ruth!" Martin's sarcasm was refreshing, "but I believe I know Louisa better than you do. You only met her yesterday."

"And you only reconciled with her a few days ago. Louisa was terribly candid with me, Martin, and you may not understand her worries and concerns about you, London, your son, everything. You really must sort out how you will parent this child and the sooner the better."

"Yes, yes, I know. Talk, communicate, be smarmy, cuddle the baby."

"Oh, Martin, really! You make me wonder what that darling girl sees in you."

Continued . . . .


	10. Chapter 10

" _ **Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon . . . "**_

 **Chapter 10 - Fantasy  
**

Ruth closed her eyes and nestled into the inviting seat of the Great Western Railway. She wanted tea and needed a meal of some sort, but first she must settle herself. Al was to fetch her at 10 o'clock for the journey to Bodmin Parkway but was – as she had come to expect – tardy. Hand rubbing his chin and eyes darting, he tried to explain himself as Ruth exhorted him to hurry. The 11:15 train should arrive at Paddington by half four, giving time for her leave taking reception from Broadmoor . It was nothing she wanted, but Helen Malloy, the new chief executive, insisted. Ruth was to be feted for 43 years of assessing the fractured minds consigned to the English penal system.

Her achievements were many but several patients were beyond help. They could only be warehoused at Rampton until their troubled souls left the earth they once menaced. If nothing else affirmed her decision to formally retire, it was the regrettable incident of Sally Tishell. Ruth could no longer manage even a simple drug induced psychosis.

Having inherited Joan's farm, she thought to restore herself in Portwenn for a few months. The farm was beautiful, quiet and peaceful. Exactly what she needed to finish her book. Having her sole nephew in the nearby village was reassuring. Having his child and the mother was a joy. This was all she hoped for had she married Russell - a bit of family in her old age.

Her nephew was not the easiest man, and she worried that Louisa did not see enough in him to stay at his side. The younger woman had visited Ruth recently, baby in tow. The autumn term had begun a few days earlier and her child care plan had gone awry. Could Ruth possibly mind James Henry for a few days? Certainly, she was happy to help but did point out that her balance issues and arthritic hands may not ensure the best care. Perhaps her skills could be better used in hiring a child minder. Did Louisa want James Henry cared for in the surgery or in someone's cottage?

"Martin would prefer the surgery, although he does complain of the noise. I'm happy if someone cares for him properly - or my definition of properly. Martin thinks I'm too lax with James. In fact, he likes nothing I do. My cooking, washing up, hygiene habits." Louisa's face fell: "Honestly, Ruth he's driving me mad. I've never lived with anyone and he's so, so, so – Martin!"

"Yes, my dear, he is that indeed. Would you indulge me for a moment whilst I put water on boil. I recall a sabbatical with Russell several years ago in a cottage overlooking the Irish Sea. I'm the least romantic woman in the world, but I did have these notions of cozy chats by the fire, walks along the beach, cooking meals together.

"Russell was on a tight deadline to produce a book, and I imagined myself his helpmate. Editing, making suggestions, offering support. I know little of economics, but I could at least organise him. He had a tendency to procrastinate whilst I crack on. Four days into it, we were arguing like fishwives, and I was ready to toss him and what had been a lovely relationship into the sea. Suddenly, I had sympathy for the murderers I treated. Their motives seemed terribly rational.

"After rising at dawn and having a run on the beach, Russell would make a large fry up whilst listening to turgid German operas. He expected me to have a full breakfast, knowing I couldn't bear more than tea and a bit of fruit before noon. He would then fiddle about with his mail, the garden or anything to avoid the task at hand. I tried cajoling him into simply putting pen to paper but he resisted at every turn. The man I loved had become this muck about who found every excuse not to work and then became grumpy when nothing was accomplished.

"By week's end, I thought to leave the cottage and likely never see him again. I felt terrible but did not wish to offend him. We had spent many days and nights together, but this was different. I had never lived with anyone and was quite used to having everything as I wanted. After his wife's death Russell became master of his singular domain and had no room for another entrant.

"Saturday morning, on my return from shopping, I saw Russell perched on a ladder, shifting slates about the roof. Bloody hell, he was to write a book not be the handyman! A vision of the next five weeks unrolled in my mind: every day the breakfast that gagged me, jollying him into working, becoming increasingly annoyed, not wanting to say anything to put him off. Something must be done.

"I didn't want to startle him, so I whistled loudly to announce my approach. He quickly dismounted the ladder, looking sheepish. Good. He recognized he was in the wrong, and we had a starting point. We spent the afternoon and a bottle of quite good Beronia working out how to live together. Turns out I wasn't the only one annoyed. I was shocked to hear that Russell was contemplating asking me to leave, allowing him to write in peace. We were each shattered, but our lowered inhibitions prompted a frank conversation. Candour was the first order followed by patience and acceptance. We loved each other too much to lose the remaining five weeks together. As it was, Russell died the next year. That time, our time, will be the memory I take to my grave."

"Oh, Ruth, I am so sorry." Louisa lightly touched the older woman's arm, an endearing gesture Ruth had come to expect. She was a warm, empathetic creature and one of the things Martin must find attractive in her. Yet Ruth saw that Louisa's insecurity and prickly nature might be lessening that attraction. The last seven weeks had been filled with rows between the couple, many of which she had witnessed. Ruth visited Martin soon after Louisa had decamped to her mother, and he was beside himself. Poor boy, he simply could not understand why she felt the need to flee the surgery. What, he asked repeatedly, had he done wrong?

Without benefit of wine or social artifice, Ruth candidly explained to Martin her perception of his relationship with Louisa. "You and she had independent lives for many years. Whether you want to admit it or not, you had no preparation for living together, much less with an infant. As I understood from Joan and the village wags, you two were at loggerheads until the baby's birth.

"You had done little more than moon over each other before you proposed marriage. When you wisely – in my opinion - did not marry, Louisa left Portwenn, much as she has now fled the surgery. You made no attempt to woo her back from London, and when she returned, pregnant with your child, you were less than welcoming."

"That's not true, Aunt Ruth!" She jumped at Martin's explosive response. "I made every effort to care for her – to help her – to do even the smallest thing. Louisa refused. She is quite, quite - obstinate. Yes, obstinate."

"And I suppose you were solicitous and understanding – just as you've been since the child was born." Ruth's sarcasm was intended to keep Martin talking. If he wasn't angry, he would retreat into silence.

"I was. Or I try to be. I am fully involved with the child," his hand emphatically chopped the air. "In fact, I do more than my share. Despite my surgery hours and emergency calls, I manage the shopping, most of the cooking, washing up, laundry and tidying. I know you're quite taken by Louisa, but she is not faultless. She is messy and disorganised. Our rooms are in shambles and my life has been turned upside down. I have been more than accommodating. You are wrong," he sputtered.

"And that is why Louisa left, is it?"

"I don't know why she left. That's the problem. If I knew, I would do something about it. I've ruled out post-partum depression as she seems sad only with me. The clinic in Truro reports she's physically sound. Louisa is tired from caring for James at night, but she failed to establish his sleeping routine. She has only herself to thank."

"Forgive me for asking Martin, but have you resumed physical intimacy with Louisa? You are beyond the recommended period, you do know."

"That is none of your business, Aunt Ruth! It is irrelevant, and it is time for you to leave."

"So you haven't. Well that could be the problem. Louisa had a first child as she approached middle age, a time when a woman's perception of her body changes. By not being intimate, Louisa may fear that you find her unappealing. You see her only as a mother, not as a woman. That is a common problem for couples with a new baby."

"Unlike these hedonistic villagers, Aunt Ruth, I can control my bodily urges. I'm giving Louisa time to heal and to rest. She is nursing, and I don't want to upset her."

"Having sex with you, Martin, would probably not upset her. She is more likely to be upset from the lack of it. I encourage you to broach the subject. I could take James if you wanted a weekend away or even here at the surgery. Your choice. Louisa is very insecure, as I have pointed out to you many times. You must tell her that she is important to you, that you care for her. I know that is tiresome, but she has been trying to be more patient and understanding with you. You must have pushed a bit too far to make her leave tonight. Care to discuss it?"

"No, I don't care to discuss it. I will be leaving for London soon, and there are more important considerations at the moment. . . . "

"Such as you leaving Louisa and James in Portwenn?"

"Yes, mmm, yes."

"Good for you, Martin. Your horrid parents stayed together because of you. We don't want you do the same thing, do we?"

"No, I suppose not." Ruth looked directly at his stricken face, willing him to say more, but she had lost him.

"I'll say good night now, Aunt Ruth." With that Martin wordlessly escorted her to the front door and firmly closed it.

She remained in her car for several minutes, breathing deeply. Everything was coming undone. Martin had alienated the mother of his child, and now she had alienated him. Ruth's efforts to help the couple were fruitless. She was a fool to think she could build some sort of family with Martin. Only a fantasy. She would return to London and separate herself from him as his father once did. Let him to do with Louisa and James as he pleased.

Soon after their late evening conversation, Martin rang Ruth at the farm. The chemist who had been caring for James Henry could not be found. PC Penhale was searching the village – could Ruth come to the surgery? What ensued was a frantic race between Portwenn and the Camelot Hotel, assumed to be the castle where Mrs. Tishell said she would wait for Martin.

After searching the hotel and annoying the staff, they traced the kidnapper to Pentire Castle where Sally Tishell stood at an arched window, holding James Henry. Martin worked out that the chemist had taken a dangerous combination of drugs which exacerbated her fixation with him. He tried shouting the poor woman down from the window, but she wouldn't budge. Unsuccessful as Ruth warned he would be, she then attempted to cajole Mrs. Tishell into turning over the child. Neither approach worked. The woman was manic and could not be calmed.

Louisa finally urged Martin to play into the fantasy that gripped Sally. "Tell her how you feel about her, Martin. Tell her nice things. She wants to know you care for her."

"The woman's having a psychotic episode and needs medical care not a ridiculous recitation from me. Let me get on with it."

"Please Martin. I know what she wants to hear from you. Please tell her."

Martin began tentatively, but gained confidence as Ruth noticed him looking directly at Louisa rather than the chemist. Her wonderment continued as Martin admitted his transgressions, and Louisa nodded her forgiveness. He did indeed love her. London meant nothing to him without her. He would stay amongst the pinch faced villagers and be miserable if that would allow him Louisa.

Believing Martin's words were directed to her, Sally Tishell rushed from the small building throwing herself at him and nearly tossing the baby to Louisa. Ruth watched as Martin and Louisa clasped hands and walked the long path toward Martin's Lexus, the very picture of a devoted family. They had worked things out on their own. Ruth certainly wasn't needed. Her fantasy of a family was ended.

It fell to her and Joseph Penhale, the barmy police constable, to escort Sally Tishell to hospital. Once there, Ruth recounted events to a young counselor who suspected the chemist had a fantasy prone personality or was a maladaptive daydreamer. Both Ruth and an older psychiatric consultant agreed that restoring Mrs. Tishell's body chemistry was a first step, followed by cognitive behavioural therapy. Ruth explained all of this to Clive Tishell, the confused but loyal husband who was sat at his wife's bedside.

The next day Ruth waited until late afternoon to visit Martin at the surgery. His earnest, young receptionist, Morwenna, was eager to provide gossip about Sally Tishell. Wide eyed she asked Ruth: "Have you heard about the chemist, then?" With this, she twirled a finger near one ear to indicate the insanity that had seized her former employer.

"Yes, I have. Mrs. Tishell should be fine. Only an unfortunate mix up in her prescription drugs. You'd think a chemist would know better. Is Martin in?"

"Can't you hear him?" He's been shouting on the phone to someone named Robert for the last 10 minutes. Go through when you please. I'll be hiding under my desk."

"Morwenna, next patient," Martin's voice thundered from behind the consulting room door.

Two old farmers in the reception area looked fearfully toward Morwenna who pointed toward Ruth. "Why don't you have a go at him, then. If you're not out in five minutes, I'll ring the PC."

"Good of you to see me, Martin." Ruth hoped a nonchalant approach might lighten his obviously bad mood. "I've only come to say good bye. I have my formal retirement from Broadmoor in a few days and will be traveling to London. I'll return in a week or so to make arrangements for the farm. I'm not sure what's to be done with it, but I would appreciate your thoughts before October. After that, you'll be quite busy at Imperial."

"I'm not going to Imperial. Nor to London. I've been on a call with Robert and the chief executive to terminate my appointment. Chris Parsons has arranged to re-hire me as the GP for Portwenn." Martin's downcast eyes and fidgeting hands belied his blasé manner. Something was troubling him.

"Oh Martin, you've done it again haven't you? The haemophobia. Your returning to surgery was only a fantasy. Your last chance, really. How does that make you feel, Martin?

"How do you think it makes me feel, Aunt Ruth," anguish choked his voice. "How in the bloody hell do you think it makes me feel?"

Continued . . . .


	11. Chapter 11

" _ **Show me slowly what I only know the limits of . . ."**_

 **Chapter 11 - Adaptation**

Ruth had endured several sleepless nights after Martin admitted his haemophobia had recurred. She expected the same in London, especially given the unfamiliar bed in Daphne and Howard Breed's guest room. The morning following her retirement party, Ruth awoke from an untroubled sleep, perhaps induced by the Champagne generously poured by Helen Malloy. The party had been better than Ruth expected.

In tribute to their mentor, three registrars performed a charming parody of Gilbert and Sullivan's "Three Little Maids From School." Ruth thought it clever that the original line "freed from its genius tutelary" became "freed to pursue things literary." They flattered Ruth to think her book literature!

The former chief executive, himself newly retired, made a rather embarrassing speech extolling Ruth's contributions to psychiatry, her generation of practitioners and those who would follow. As for her forthcoming book, it would extend her brilliant reputation even more. How much drink had the man imbibed, she wondered.

A particularly moving talk was provided by a burly officer from visitor reception. He had been severely injured during service in Afghanistan and – Ruth soon recognized – suffered mental trauma as well. Standing on his proesthetic limb, he recalled how Dr. Ellingham treated the most violent prisoners by engaging them over a chessboard. He asked if she would teach him the game as well. In a self-deprecating manner, he noted that he could not easily pick up the pieces, but Dr. Ellingham allowed him to push them from square to square with the remains of his fingers. His proudest moment was his first checkmate of her king. It was not easy. He had to study and practice the game so that he could win fair and square. Nor was it easy when he sought the psychiatric care she bluntly told him was needed. He owed his life to a military medic, but he owed his mind to Ruth Ellingham. Applause sounded as he limped toward Ruth, who feared he might embrace her. Fortunately, he only grasped her hand. She did not cry then, but did this morning, cursing the eye drops that allowed tears to flow. She had to face Daphne and Howard.

Her retired friends had been very animated last night in welcoming her to their flat and then pushing her into a taxi. Ruth imagined it was the highlight of their week, perhaps even month. How tedious their lives must be. She would steal quietly into the kitchen and make tea for them. They were likely exhausted after what must have been a rare, nighttime outing.

"Oh, look, here she is Daph." I told you we should let her sleep."

"Welcome to retirement, Ruthie," Daphne thrust a beaker of tea into her guest's hand. "You'll love it. Sorry, we can't be with you today - busy, busy. We've fitness class, followed by our tutoring at St. Jeremy's. Howard teaches literacy and I'm doing the accountancy. Lunch is booked in with our old neighbours from Michigan who are on a river cruise through Europe. I can't imagine 14 days on a ship, but they're Americans, aren't they. I tried for a ticket so that you could join us at the symphony rehearsal, but no luck. Too many pensioners fill the seats quickly. We should be home by 6'ish, and we'll fetch take away. Do you fancy curry from Thailand, India, China or Nepal? Or I can always stop at the fish monger, but you've probably had your fill of fish."

Ruth sank into the kitchen chair, amazed by the day her friend presented. She couldn't dream that Daphne and Howard would be this active in retirement. She thought they would bumble about the flat, making desultory conversation about mundane news bits from the telly. They seemed more involved in life than ever. Perhaps retirement in London – or at least her village of Crowthorne – would be more fulfilling than Ruth thought possible.

"Don't worry about me, dears. I'm to have lunch with Agnes Makepeace, my solicitor's former secretary. She's retired as well, but I want to chat with her about Joan's farm. She always knows the right person to contact. Or at least she once did."

"So you've decided to sell the place?" Howard looked a little concerned. "You might keep it for a few more years. Property values are rising rapidly in Cornwall with the tourism. Even our esteemed Prime Minister takes holidays in Polzeath. We only wish he'd remain there permanently."

"Now, Howard, don't bore Ruth with your political views. You've plenty of time for that this evening. We must be off or we'll miss the weight training. You know it's good for your shoulder, darling. Help yourself to breakfast, Ruth. We'll have a nice catch up this evening. The fete was splendid. They truly appreciated you at Broadmoor. Now it's time for something new!"

Agnes Makepeace was a ginger or at least this was the first Ruth thought to notice her hair. It was no longer twisted into a tight knot but arranged in a short style which flattered her long face. Still Ruth recognized her as she entered the restaurant. "Dr. Ellingham, it's so lovely to see you. Country living agrees with you, doesn't it now?"

"I'm not certain about that, but please do call me Ruth. I'm retired as well."

"Yes, you've said. And now to sell Mrs. Norton's farm. Is that what you want? Seems a shame, being in the family so long. Does the lad, Martin, not want it?"

"It seems not, but I certainly wish he did. He has a child now. It would be nice if Havenhurst passed to him."

"A child! Mr. Ellingham! I thought he'd never marry after the doctor wed that other bloke. Didn't you think they were good together? Traveling to the Naseby Run and all that. Of course, that was another time. . . Look at me, two years out of harness and having the time of my life. Even getting married." Agnes wiggled her left hand to display a gold Cladagh ring with a green stone at its center."

"Agnes, how lovely. Anyone we know?" Ruth often wondered if Agnes and the family solicitor, Arthur Spilsbury, had a bit of a thing, particularly after his wife died. She'd let Agnes give the news.

"No, it's not Mr. Spilsbury! That's what everyone thought. He's an old fuddy-duddy, isn't he? We talk occasionally, but I leave him to his poor daughter-in-law. She told me I had ruined him for any other woman. Suppose I did. But that's what he wanted in a secretary.

"My fiance's an Irishman I met on a train. He'd been a priest of all things and finally decided to leave when his mother died. He took holy orders only to please her, you see. Now he's a hospital chaplain and visits care homes."

"So you've been traveling a bit in retirement. As far as Ireland even."

"Oh, no, I met Jack in New Zealand. We were on a Kiwirail from Christchurch to Picton and he plopped next to me. Talked my ear off – that's the Irish and their chat. I did see Veronica Estilow in Wellington. She's still a muckety muck and had me to her house for supper. Jack as well. Veronica travels back and forth to Washington seeing her grandchildren. David's in London now and the kiddies are in the States with their mum. Veronica doesn't understand why he can't get on with Meghan – that's his wife. You should visit her, Dr. Ellingham, I mean Ruth. I know Veronica would be thrilled to see you."

"Traveling would be lovely, but I have to manage the sale of Joan's farm. It requires constant attention, and I'm just not up to it. Are there estate agents who do that sort of thing? I must say I'm at a loss, Agnes."

"Of course, there are. But have you thought to do something with it other than farming. Cornwall is very popular with Londoners, and there's money to be made. Maybe you could do an Airbnb."

"You mean a B&B? Too much work. And the house is a bit derelict. Joan had neglected it for years – didn't have the money. I'd have to smarten it up."

"Well, I'm living with Jack now and doing Airbnb with my flat. Tourists pay a fortune to be near St. James Park. Mr. Spilsbury did well putting me on to the flat. I bought it years ago for a song. Now I can let it for 100 pounds a night or more – enough to have a Polish woman come in to do the linens and clean. I leave a key with the porter and it's sorted with . I'll send you an email with the details. You could let rooms at the farm or the entire house. It would pay for the taxes, upkeep and give you a nice sum. It's better than my pension."

Ruth felt as if she were Robinson Crusoe and only returned to civilization. First Daphne and Howard were gadding about and now Agnes Makepeace was on to a money making scheme that Ruth found intriguing. Why didn't she know about Airbnb or ? She no longer had even an email account now retired from Broadmoor. Only a few months in Portwenn and she had become a provincial!

"I'm in the process of setting up a new email, Agnes," surely Al Large could manage that. "I do want to know about this Airbnb business and will be in touch. It might be worth refurbishing the farm house, if it could pay for itself. Still, if you know of estate agents or a solicitor, I would be very grateful."

"Of course. Now, I've not had breakfast and the mozzarella frittata looks delicious. This is my treat, Ruth. You were always very generous at Christmas."

Ruth and Agnes had a very convivial lunch, and Ruth extracted more ideas about how she might retain the farm. Al Large was eager to stay on as manager, but he'd have to raise his game if there were a renovation scheme. Her mind was swirling by the time Agnes put down her cup, consulted her watch and announced: "Must run. I'm meeting Jack for a symphony rehearsal. Let's have a snap to remember our lunch. We can send it on to Veronica if you like."

Agnes reached into a dark blue tote and withdrew a slim mobile.

"Let me fetch a waiter. He can take the photo," Ruth offered.

"Oh no, we'll make a selfie." Agnes leaned toward her, extended the mobile, and pressed the screen. "Now this is nice, isn't it?" Looking at the mobile, Ruth saw a passably good photo of herself with a smiling Agnes Makepeace. "I'll send this on to Veronica if you don't mind. Is there anyone you'd like to have it?"

"Yes, please do - and give Veronica my sincere regards." Then Ruth stopped. She had no one else who would want a snap of her. It would be silly to send it to anyone from Broadmoor or her small circle here in London. She saw them often enough. Who really cared about her in this world? "Send it to Louisa. That's Martin's – actually, she's a friend. She likes that sort of thing. Let me find her number. Please add that I'm enjoying old friends in London."

In both the station and tube to the Breeds' flat, Ruth heard repeated announcements that unattended packages or luggage would be seized and destroyed. Exiting the train, she looked directly at a CCTV camera and counted others as she walked past a group of shops. Eleven in all. More police seemed to be on the streets, and several hurried past on bicycles. In Crowthorne, security was not as omnipresent but, here in central London, it was more than evident. Why hadn't she noticed this before? Had living in Portwenn allowed her to drop her guard? The hapless PC in charge of village security was useless with Sally Tishell, and Ruth shuddered to imagine what would come of her in an emergency. She reflexively touched her handbag containing the red gel defencive spray she was permitted to carry at Broadmoor. One never knew when a docile prisoner may turn murderous.

She'd always enjoyed the grit, noise and haphazard glory of London, but suddenly Cornwall seemed terribly appealing, save for her isolation at the farm. Ruth knew few villagers, other than Martin, Louisa, and the shopkeepers. Joan's friends had been quite kind, but Muriel Steel was at High Trees with her gentleman friend in attendance. Wesse managed her bakery and had a horde of grandchildren in and out during the day. Only Annie had time for Ruth, and that was sporadic because of demand for her fancy catering. One afternoon Ruth had helped arrange trays of savouries for Annie and felt the effects on her hands for several days. Thankfully her book was completed, and she need not use the computer. Tomorrow, she would discuss the final version with her publisher who had scheduled a Christmas release.

Ruth couldn't imagine a book on the criminally insane being a proper present, but the enthusiastic young girl, Nicola, assured Ruth it would be "fantastic" whilst her American counterpart, Ashley, elevated it to "awesome." Ruth bit her tongue when she was forced to talk with the two supposedly well- educated editors whose vocabularies were as thin as their well-toned bodies. The two had urged her to buy a smartphone so that she might text them, their preferred method of communication. She tried to inform them that mobile coverage in Portwenn was the issue, not the device. Their open looks of pity galled Ruth, but she had done nothing about it. Approaching a mobile shop, she thought to browse, ask a question or two.

A young woman in an incongruous combination of tight fitting jeans and colourful hijab smiled benignly at Ruth as she entered. It was the same comforting look she once gave new prisoners at Broadmoor: we aren't going to hurt you; we can actually help.

An hour later and with a substantial outlay of funds, Ruth had a smartphone, service plan, and a new email account. Hassan, one of the youngsters who had participated in the transaction, downloaded several "apps" he thought important to Ruth. They included Emergency Services and the London weather report. To be adventurous, she asked him to add Cornwall weather as well.

Now it came down to something called a "ringtone." Leyla, who first greeted her, assured Ruth anything was possible. She thought to do "Ride of the Valkyries" from Russell's favourite opera but, in the end, selected the sound of a classic British telephone. "Our most popular ringtone. My grandmother has it as well," Hassan bowed politely as he finished this last piece.

Ruth tucked the phone into her handbag and picked up the plastic container holding any number of manuals which she would turn over to Al Large. Certainly, he could help if she forget anything.

That evening Howard was completely fascinated by the smartphone. He showed Ruth how to send a text to Agnes Makepeace and suggested she download several game apps he enjoyed. Daphne finally intervened. "Give it back, darling. We are going to have a proper conversation with our guest."

"Oh look, Ruth's friend Agnes has responded to her text and forwarded a message from someone called Louisa." Handing the phone to her, Ruth read: "Thanks 4 pic. Must reach Ruth. No answer friend's flat. Please have her ring. Martin & I need her."

Continued . . . .


	12. Chapter 12

" _ **Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone . . ."**_

 **Chapter 12 (revised)**

 **Need**

"What is it Ruth? Everything all right?" Daphne asked in her usual solicitous mode as Ruth looked up from her mobile.

"Yes," Ruth said, "I believe so. But Louisa, Martin's friend – partner, I suppose - sent a text asking that I ring them – they need me."

"Oh, now, that can't be good," Howard spoke. "When we hear that from our daughter,Sarah, it usually means she wants us to mind the kiddies whilst she and that arrogant bugger she married go off for the weekend. Now with our son, Ian, it's always more Gift Aid for one of his charities. It's never what you expect."

Ruth said: "It could be child minding, but I've suggested that Louisa sort that out with an agency. They can easily find someone with an OFSTED registration. I've located several suitable candidates only by asking about in Portwenn. The child is nearly five months, and they seem hopeless to hire proper care.

"What's the time, Howard?" Ruth asked, having removed her watch whilst doing the washing up.

"You might look on your phone – it's right there." Howard responded and continued: "You can even set a timer to remind you of appointments. Quite clever really."

Ruth said: "Yes, I see. It is after 8, but if it's important, maybe I should ring them." As Leyla had demonstrated, Ruth pressed the screen and was connected to Louisa's mobile. Soon she heard a message that the device had been switched off. Dare she phone Martin? Visions of any number of disasters ran through her head. She would phone him.

On the third ring, Ruth's nephew, Martin, bleated: "Ellingham."

"Sorry, dear boy, it's Aunt Ruth. I've a text from Louisa saying that you need me."

"What do they want Martin. Tell them to go away . . . " Ruth recognized Louisa Glasson's voice hissing in the background.

"Well, I don't know what she wants. You texted her," Martin responded.

"Who, Martin," Louisa asked.

"Aunt Ruth," Martin responded.

"Why didn't you say then? Hand me the phone," Louisa asked.

Martin replied: "I would, but your arm's in the way. And shush. You'll awaken James."

"Don't shush me, Martin," Louisa said.

With that Ruth heard a wail from James Henry. Why couldn't these two manage a simple passing of the phone from one to the other?

"Oh, Martin, you see to James. I'll speak with Ruth," Louisa spoke.

"Where are my pyjamas," Martin asked.

"I've no idea," Louisa answered.

"Well you removed them, you might know where you pitched them," said Martin.

Louisa replied: "Probably in the same spot as my nightdress. Now please fetch James and hand me your mobile."

Oh dear, Ruth reckoned that she had found the two _in flagrante delicto_. She would ring off quickly. Obviously, whatever they needed was not pressing - or was about to be fulfilled.

"What's happening Ruth? Is there a problem," her hostess, Daphne, asked with concern.

"Noooo. I believe they may have already retired for the evening." Ruth spoke directly to Daphne. "They both have early hours. Oh here's Louisa now."

"Hullo, Ruth," Louisa responded. "Sorry, bit of a problem getting organised. Martin's seeing to James, so I can talk. How's London? Was the party nice?"

Ruth answered: "Both fine, but are you okay dear? Your text said that you and Martin need me."

"Yes, yes a bit of news." Louisa replied. "We wanted to tell you, or at least I wanted to tell you" - and here Louisa's voice rose a few decibels with excitement - "Martin and I are getting married. He asked me, and I said yes!"

Oh God, no, was Ruth's first reaction, but she instead asked the less offencive: "Are you certain that's a good idea?"

"Yes, I believe it is." Louisa's replied. Louisa's voice was now deflated – a bit brittle. "We thought you'd be happy for us," Louisa retorted.

"Of course I am." Ruth responded and continued: "Congrat -" Ruth suddenly remembered mother's admonition: one never congratulates a bride, one wishes her the best. "Best wishes, Louisa. Should we talk about this when I'm home – back in Portwenn, that is."

"If you like," Louisa responded. Oh, this was terrible. Ruth hated dashing Louisa's happiness. Ruth would be more enthusiastic.

"Actually, that is fantastic news, awesome really." Ruth shuddered as she uttered the cliched words favoured by Ashley and Nicola. She was flummoxed and should ring off before saying even worse.

"May I speak with Martin?" Ruth asked. "I'd like to congratulate him as well." Yes, a man was to be congratulated on choosing a mate - Ruth remembered that fine point.

"Ellingham," Martin spoke into the phone. Clearly he wanted James to sleep again so that he and Louisa could resume their nocturnal activities.

"It's only me, Martin, "Ruth replied. "No need for the professional demeanour. Louisa's told me the news. Congratulations and all that. We'll talk when I return."

"Right, then. I'll say good night," Martin replied. The line was disconnected.

"What it the world was that about, Ruth," Daphne asked.

Ruth replied: "They're to be married, it seems. I suppose I wasn't overjoyed so Louisa became a bit miffed. The poor girl has such a ticklish personality. She turns from ecstatic to doleful in a second. She can't manage the in between. I believe that's their principal problem. If things aren't as Louisa wants, she believes it's her fault, that's she's done something wrong. The slightest off thing from Martin, and she flees - literally and figuratively.

Ruth continued: "I've tried speaking to her, obliquely of course, but she needs someone unrelated to their situation. I'm afraid I do better with men who've chopped their mothers into little pieces. Although, in Martin's case, that wouldn't necessarily be a criminal offence.

"When their baby was kidnapped," Ruth spoke, "I met a brilliant young psychologist who initially assessed the batty chemist. She would do nicely. Similar in age to Louisa and a very empathetic personanxiety

"Ruth, that entire child taking was horrifying," Daphne said. "I can't imagine having your baby stolen away." Over dinner, Howard and Daphne had been aghast at Ruth's description of the Sally Tishell incident. "That must have caused this Louisa even more anxiety. You should have her talk to that young woman. Counseling would help her – the both of them really."

Ruth responded: "You're right. I don't believe Louisa understands the trauma she suffered from having her child missing even for a few hours. And Martin's no better. He's never properly mourned Joan either. When I asked about Joan, Martin only said: 'Joan's dead, I've nothing more to say on the matter.'

"Now this blood phobia has recurred, and he had to forego the surgery post here in London." Ruth continued to speak: "He must be devastated, but he's chosen to ignore it. Of course, the two are related. Something good happens to him, like the baby and Louisa, and his psyche determines that he must be punished for this bit of happiness. The phobia recurs and he can't take the post in London. That happiness is quashed. It is a cycle that is going to undermine Martin if he can't face his issues."

Howard now spoke: "Well, I thought we had problems with Sarah and Andrew when he had that little fling with the au pair." Ruth was surprised that Howard would reveal something so personal, even to her. "That was managed in a few counseling sessions – and some choice threats from Sarah. But this seems more than a bog standard matter. If they are having these problems now, how do they hope to sustain a marriage?

"You should encourage them to have pre-marital counseling," Howard said. "The Anglicans are doing that as a matter of course, and I can tell you it changed our Ian for the better. He's my child, but he had become a self-centered prat. His Mary insisted they do the course, and now Ian's a quite good husband, father – and son. Talk to the psychologist. She might do that sort of thing or put you on to someone else."

Ruth replied: "I'll ring her when I return to Portwenn. In fact, I have quite a bit to investigate. Agnes suggested a scheme called Airbnb that might help me keep Joan's farm. Work would have to be done to the house, but I'll have funds from my book. A young chap from the village has been helping, and it would give him a chance to make something of himself. He's too close to his father and fears independence."

Daphne now spoke: "Oh, Ruthie, another young man for you to save. Have you taught him chess as well?" Daphne smiled as she held the wine bottle over Ruth's glass.

"Only a bit more," Ruth said. "I must see my ghastly editors tomorrow, and they insist a photo be made for the book. They rang me in Portwenn, telling me to get my beauty sleep. They even suggested I put haemorrhoid pads on my eyes to reduce the swelling. Can you imagine?"

The old friends, Daphne, Howard and Ruth, talked for the next hour or so and then went off to bed with promises of more chat in the morning. Ruth tried to sleep as instructed by Nicola, but it again eluded her. How could Martin think it a good idea to marry Louisa? Didn't he listen to her when she suggested they work out their issues before committing to marriage? They were mature adults, not starry-eyed adolescents. How would marriage solve their problems? Or did Martin want to marry Louisa to stop the flow of losses from his life: Joan, his post in London, his very identity as a surgeon.

I ruminated over all these things in the taxi to the publisher, where Nicola started gushing immediately upon my arrival. I looked at the enthusiastic young woman and wondered if I ever had that sort of energy.

Nicola asked Ruth: "Dr. Ellingham, what's happened to you? Your eyes have gone all puffy? You did use the haemorrhoid pads, right?"

"No, Nicola," Ruth replied. "I did not. I am a psychiatrist, and the readers of my book will care more about what I wrote than how I look. If you aren't satisfied with my appearance, I'll take a selfie and you can use that!"

"Oh, Dr. Ellingham, you know how to do selfies," asked the other young editor, Ashley. For the first time since meeting the vapid Ashley, she seemed impressed by Ruth. "Can you text as well? Your emails are sooooo long," Ashley said.

Ruth spoke: "That's because they contain edits to my book. You have made the changes, haven't you?"

Ashley looked hopefully toward Nicola who seemed to have gained the upper hand in their partnership of witlessness. "Yes, Dr. Ellingham, it's been sorted," said Nicola. "In fact, we have the final manuscript for you to read once more – but only if you like. Then there's the cover design to approve and your photo.

"Your acknowledgement is complete," Nicola continued, "although we do want you to check the spellings. AutoCorrect may have changed a few names. And we must have a dedication. You've said it isn't necessary, but Mr. Hardesty thought you should have one. He said it humanizes the author."

Ruth replied: "I shall use my brain to correct the spellings, but you can tell Geoffrey Hardesty that if he wants a dedication he can bloody well write it himself." Ruth's lack of sleep made her even more irritated with the editors.

The publisher, Geoffrey Hardesty, swanned into the room, perched on the end of Ashley's desk and took Ruth's hand. "Happy to write the dedication, Dr. Ellingham," the publisher spoke and continued: "To Geoffrey Hardesty, a terribly handsome and modest man of great wit, intelligence and _savoir faire,_ who could only aspire to the mastery of chess enjoyed by this author."

"If that's the best you can do, I'll write my own dedication," Ruth responded. "At least I won't use run on sentences and bathe it in mendacious phraseology."

"Now, Ruth, please don't use those fancy words with our Nicola and Ashley," said Hardesty. "Although I do like 'mendacious.' I believe my third wife's solicitor used it in her divorce action against me. Pity, she was the love of my life."

"Until you found wife number four - or was it five?" Ruth said. She almost refused Hardesty as her publisher, based on his flamboyant reputation. Meeting him, she realized he was a survivor in a shrinking industry because he did possess a fine mind. At their first encounter, they played an intense game of chess, and he trounced Ruth with a rare Boden's Mate. She hadn't seen anyone carry off that move since Martin used it at his long ago chess championship. Another fine mind she feared would moulder in Portwenn.

For the next while, Ruth patiently allowed a makeup artist to cover the swelling under her eyes and otherwise torture her face and hair into a state approved by Ashley. The photographer said she was a terribly cooperative subject and compared her to his late mother who had died a year earlier. A gush of grief followed, which Ruth attempted to quell with the promise of tea and a chat if he would soldier on and finish the session. Over water rather than tea -didn't Ruth understand that tea caused bloating - the photographer explained his tenuous relationship with mum. He was interrupted by the heartless Nicola who informed him: "Everyone's mother dies. Dr. Ellingham must move on," Nicola said.

Ruth was startled by Nicola's callous comment but – at the same time – was grateful to leave the clutches of yet another needy young man. Her recommendation that he look into grief counseling was a revelation to the poor chap. Ruth rewarded him with a sympathetic smile as she hurried after Nicola and Ashley to the legal office.

Arthur Spilsbury's successor, Leonard Davidow, had finalised the contractual details in advance, and it took Ruth only minutes to sign a document which provided surprisingly generous royalties for her book. The funds might allow work to proceed at Havenhurst.

Nicola and Ashley bundled her off with the final version of the book, at last conceding that emailing, rather than texting, was acceptable. The two had annoyed Ruth immeasurably, still they did guide her through the process relatively unscathed. As Geoffrey Hardesty appeared, she graciously thanked them and assured each that their names would be spelled correctly in the acknowledgement.

Geoffey Hardesty said: "Good job all around then, Ash and Nic. Drinks party at publication. Now I must escort this lovely lady to the train station. I'd drive her to Cornwall, but then I'd be in Cornwall." The young girls dutifully giggled at their boss's weak witticism whilst Ruth tried to roll her makeup-laden eyes.

Traveling to the station, she feared the publisher would join her realm of needy men as their conversation quickly devolved into problems with his current wife. Ruth spoke to him: "Geoffrey, I am not the right person to talk with. You have seen any manner of psychiatrists but, until you cooperate, only they will profit."

"Ruth, I know you think it trite that I found the love of my life after five marriages, but it's true." Geoffrey replied. "I've never felt this way about any other wife or woman for that matter. Yet Vivienne and I bicker constantly, and she's threatening to leave me at every turn. Then we have great make up sex but are at each other's throats the next day."

"Geoffrey," Ruth responded, "you are my publisher, not my patient. Although, given your childhood, you could as easily have had a place at Broadmoor as in publishing. As a friend, I suggest you see a counselor first and then both of you seek individual treatment. 'Make-up sex,' as you like to call it, is a false intimacy. You need true intimacy to make a go of marriage. Vivienne could very well be the love of your life, but if you can't stay together, obviously you will never know."

Insisting that he put her on the train at Paddington, Ruth waved goodbye to Geoffrey Hardesty from the first class coach, an upgrade he arranged from the platform.

Now settling into her even more comfortable seat for the return trip to Cornwall, Ruth's mind was abuzz with the beginnings of several plans: refurbishing Havenhurst; moving house to the village, and ensuring that Martin and Louisa obtain some sort of pre-marital counseling.

The first two were quite manageable. The last – oh dear, she couldn't imagine how difficult that might be.

 _ **Author's Note: Thanks to Robspace 54 for his excellent suggestions to improve this chapter and for providing the helpful bridge sentences. Hopefully, it is now clear which character is speaking and the location of each scene. I appreciate the help of the FF community of writers.**_


	13. Chapter 13

" _ **Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on . . . "**_

 **Chapter 13 – Findings**

Ruth arrived at Bodmin Parkway as night descended on the isolated countryside. She was the only passenger to leave the train and was annoyed that the dispatcher insisted on carrying her bag to the car park. Now that she was a pensioner, did she emit an air of decrepitude - unable to care for herself? She'd likely moulder in Portwenn as well. Her wretched mood continued on unlocking the front door of the dark, unwelcoming farm house. It was quite different from the times Joan greeted her with a generous embrace and hours of catching up. God, she missed her sister!

Switching on lights as she entered the kitchen, Ruth noticed several flicker. The electrics were in need of a top to bottom overhaul; same with the plumbing. Even with the new boiler, things were dodgy. Wind penetrated the window casings, and the rough wood floors looked as if chickens had scratched at them.

Ruth poured more than a thimble of malt into a crystal tumbler, one of a set mother surreptitiously sent to Joan on her wedding. The whiskey, itself, was a gift from Al Large, the only villager to acknowledge her birthday. How he learned of it, Ruth would never know - nor did she ask. To show her thanks, she roundly flogged him at chess. Glass in hand, Ruth climbed the tilted stairs to the small bedroom Joan occupied following her husband's death. Before sleep, Ruth gazed at her sister's photo on the side table: "Oh, Joanie, you would be thrilled with their engagement. We've always wanted a family for Martin. Perhaps all will go to plan this time."

Ruth had been in Hong Kong assessing long-time British prisoners when Joan told her of Martin's previous wedding plans. It had been a trying time, and the sisters agreed that a return to England was not advisable. Joan was concerned not only by the haste of the wedding, but the likelihood it would never occur. As it turned out, she was prescient, and Ruth was relieved. She gave the marriage little chance of success, given Joan's candid description of the couple's mercurial relationship.

Despite these unsettling thoughts, sleep came easily to Ruth, and clucking chickens awakened her the next morning. Good, Al was seeing to their feed. She'd have a word with him as soon as she dressed.

"Mornin' Ruth. How was London? Did they give you a posh do?" Al looked worse than Ruth felt, and she wondered if he had worked into the night once more.

"The party was quite smart, thank you. How're are the sheep and the veg? Anything I should know?"

"They're good. Yeah, good I'd say. I cleared out a corner of the barn for more winter feed like you asked. The fence is about half done. Doc and Louisa are getting married. Did they tell you?"

"Yes, they mentioned it." Ruth would not be drawn into village gossip. "Now when will the fencing be finished? I may want to meet with contractors about the house. Someone in London told me about an Airbnb scheme we could have here at the farm."

"What's an Air B and B?" Al looked bewildered, but that was not unusual. "Do you take an airplane to Newquay, then a taxi to Joan's farm? Who'd do that?"

"It's _**my**_ farm, and an Airbnb is letting the house to Londoners. They do self-catering, so there is a bed but no breakfast."

"Why innit a cottage? Like in the village?"

"Good point. I'll have a think on that and get back to you." Ruth had no idea why she tried to do anything for Al. He was as thick as the sheep but he did mean well. Yet his question was valid: Why would someone stay at the farm when they could be in the village? She'd have a talk with Agnes.

"What are these boxes, Al?"

"They were in the barn. Had Mrs. Norton's name on 'em."

Dismissing Al with a request to pull vegetables for the market, Ruth carefully removed the top from a mouldy carton. The name of a London removal company was still visible on the side: Rafferty's. They had cleared the house when father died. A white padded envelope caught her eye. Certainly, this wasn't from that time. It looked too new. Picking up the parcel she turned it over to see the name "Martin" neatly printed on the front. Perhaps this was something Joan intended for their nephew.

Curious, Ruth shook the unsealed packet and a small box fell out. Raising the lid, she instantly recognized her mother's engagement ring. How serendipitous! She would bring it to Martin today. Giving the ring to Louisa would be a lovely connection to his cherished grandfather, if not to his grandmother who died when Martin was 5 years.

That may have been for the best as Dorothy Ellingham was not as she appeared to be, particularly in her final years. Ruth saw mum's peculiar behaviour when she thought no one was looking. So fascinated was Ruth by mother's aberrant personality, that she read the limited psychology works available in father's medical library. When she chose to specialise in psychiatry, Ruth did so with the hope of one day understanding mother. On those rare occasions when mum was favourably disposed to father, she enjoyed telling her daughters about their courtship. Ruth now recalled the story as she rested head on hands and closed her eyes against the morning sun.

Married at an early age to a man 15 years her senior, Dorothy Bedford came of age as England was regaining its economic footings following the Great Slump. Her father's textile business would never quite recover as demand fell for the wool his family had manufactured and exported for years. At her brother's wedding in West Yorkshire, Dorothy met his medical school friend, Henry Ellingham. He was a dour sort but, at 20 years, Dorothy thought him a challenge. She lavishly flirted with him, but he seemed immune to her considerable wiles. As she was about to leave him to himself, he asked: "Are you having your menses? You seem quite choleric."

Dorothy was neither well educated nor well read, and she had no idea of the two words. Steadfast in her attempt to bring the man around, she fluttered her eyelashes: "Menses and choleric sound terribly interesting. Could you explain them kind sir?"

Henry answered sardonically: "Choleric means ill-tempered. Menses is the monthly discharge of blood and tissue enjoyed by young ladies who've not gotten themselves pregnant. I suppose you are quite biblical and say 'in her flowers' like a proper English girl."

Dorothy's face took on a crimson hue at his rude explanation. It was one thing to call her ill-tempered, but to refer to . . . well she didn't even know what to think of a gentlemen who would mention such an unmentionable thing.

"All right then, you've finally nothing to say, Miss Bedford. I believe I'll have a whiskey. May I bring you one as well?"

Dorothy dumbly nodded, knowing she would flee the second he was out of sight. It was then that Aunt Florence spotted her. "My dear, are you enjoying yourself. The bride was lovely, simply lovely. Your brother is a lucky chap. Finding such a dear girl at his age. Your mother and I had nearly lost hope. Of course, your Uncle Julian knew it was only a matter of waiting until he completed training. First the war interrupted his education, and then it takes a terribly long time to become a proper surgeon, doesn't it? Now we must think of you, my dear. You are still in your first flower, and the young men must be buzzing about you. So pretty you are. Well then, who is this?"

Dorothy blushed once more as Henry Ellingham returned and extended a tiny glass of Madeira to her. "Oh, how lovely. The gentlemen has brought you a bit of sherry. May I be introduced?"

"Of course, certainly," Dorothy stammered. "This is John's friend, Henry Ellingham. I believe he's a surgeon as well."

"Lovely, lovely, simply lovely," Aunt Florence gushed. "How are you finding us here in Keighley," the older woman tilted her head in a coquettish manner.

"Lovely, lovely, simply lovely," he mimicked her aunt who seemed unfazed. "Bedford has regaled me for years about the charms and attractions of your fair village, but I must say it is quite a bracing place. London pales in comparison."

"It certainly does," Aunt Florence trilled in agreement. "Well, I will leave you children to it. I must help your mother with the farewell. It will be quite festive. Chinese fireworks if you please. Nothing too good for John and his Marjorie. Lovely to meet you Mr. Ellingham."

"I should be off as well," Dorothy was finally able to stand.

"No, stay with me. Please." He extended the small glass and looked hopefully at her over his spectacles. "I apologize for my comments earlier. You are not at all choleric. You are quite charming in fact."

Dorothy had no idea of her brother's friend. One minute he insulted her, the next he called her charming. Too dumbfounded to respond, she took a sip of the sweet drink and then a second and third until the glass was empty and she could speak.

With the liquid calming her nerves, she found it easier to engage this confounding man. When she flirted with other chaps, they knew how to parry her comments and press their advantage. Henry Ellingham was another matter altogether. She'd say her good evening and help auntie and mum.

"Thank you for the sherry. It was very kind of you. Your apology was quite gracious. You are indeed a gentlemen."

Before she could make her departure, Henry removed his spectacles: "Tell me about yourself. I don't want you to leave just yet." With his eyes revealed, she found him a bit more attractive. They seemed to be green, but with his slightest movement, they tended toward hazel with more than a dash of yellow. She found herself a bit entranced by his eyes, but of course it was the modest amount of sherry causing her fascination, wasn't it?

Dorothy returned to the delicately carved chair, and Henry Ellingham poured whiskey from his glass into the tiny vessel that once held sherry. "I'd like to know more about you, Miss Bedford."

By the time they had in effect split the large glass of whiskey, Dorothy's father sounded the dinner gong and exhorted everyone to gather in the front court. The bride and groom were departing for their honeymoon. "Oh we must see them off," the drink had loosened her inhibitions as she reached for the surgeon's hand. "Come on. It will be fun. I promise."

He remained seated: "Fun, is it? You go on. Thank you for your company." As much as she wanted to escape him earlier, now she wanted to be with Henry Ellingham. Boys never cared to learn about her! They only wanted to prattle on about themselves, their sports, their schools, all so terribly boring. "Right then, I'll stay with you. Miss sending off my brother and new sister-in-law. All because you're too stubborn to come with me." Her attempt at a pout did not impress her brother's friend.

"I was right the first time. You are a bit choleric. John said as much." But this time he added a smile. A very nice smile that made his green eyes twinkle little enough.

Emboldened by her share of the whiskey, Dorothy stood and tugged at his hand. "Come on then."

They soon joined the excited guests crowded into the small courtyard, waiting for the bride and groom to appear. Hands from father's mill had set a fireworks display and, on a cue from mother, began lighting them. Dorothy looked on in wonder as the summer sky was streaked with vivid colour and anticipation grew. When the display reached its crescendo, the newlyweds appeared in smart travel clothes, ready for their trip to Majorca. Envy pulled at Dorothy, who had never enjoyed such an exotic holiday, much less time alone with a man. What made her think of that she could only wonder. She joined the others in calling "bon voyage" and "best wishes" as the couple entered an old village taxi for their short journey to the station. Tomorrow they were taking an actual airplane flight, an adventure Dorothy couldn't imagine.

She turned to Henry Ellingham: "Have you ever flown in an airplane. It must be terribly thrilling."

"Not with a swarm of German aces chasing after you it isn't. After the war, I swore I'd never fly again. So far, I've kept that oath."

"You were a flyer, then?"

"A proud member of His Majesty's Royal Naval Air Squadron 16. Lieutenant Henry Martin Ellingham, at your service." His mock salute ended with his hand brushing hair from her face. "Too many of my mates were lost to it, and I don't think about it. Only that I won't fly. But then I've not recently had the occasion. Medical school and surgical training are quite time consuming. I thought they'd never turn us loose on the poor sods needing the odd hysterectomy, appendicectomy, thyroidectomy, or any of the other 'ectomies' I am now qualified to perform."

The crowd was slowly dispersing, some to waiting cars and others to horse drawn carriages. Family was flowing back into the house for a recounting of the wedding and one final drink to end the long day.

Dorothy and Henry remained in the darkened courtyard, illuminated only by torches set at each gate. "I suppose I should search out Wilson. We've rooms at the pub and will return to London on the first morning train. We did right by Bedford. Saw him properly married and all."

Once again, her companion fought a battle with the warm night breeze and tried to move a thick, dark curl from her forehead. Coming to his aid, Dorothy took the lock of hair and pushed it behind her ear. Mother had been horrified that she wore her hair loose for the wedding rather than pulled into the chignons favoured by the other girls. It was 1934 after all, and that was the style shown in fashion magazines.

On his third attempt to sort out her hair, she laughed: "I'm afraid the wind's gotten the best of it. Mother was right. I should have bound it up. It's a bit messy now."

"It's lovely. You have lovely hair. It feels like catgut. What we use in surgery. Very fine, very delicate."

"Catgut is it?" Dorothy wasn't sure if she should be insulted again, but he did say that this badly named catgut was quite fine

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that you're hair feels like a cat's gut. Only that it's . . . "

Before he could finish, she laughed. "Don't worry. I'm not a sensitive sort. I was more embarrassed earlier than anything. Men don't usually talk about a girl's – well – what you said."

"Actually gynaecology is quite intriguing. I would have made my career in it, but the Ellinghams are surgeons, so a surgeon I shall be."

"Why do you find it intriguing if it's about ladies and girls?"

"Perhaps I find ladies and girls intriguing. You're intriguing."

Dorothy Bedford was dumbstruck by this strange man declaring her intriguing. Of course, he was being silly. Now he was messing her about like the other boys. Except he wasn't a boy, was he?

"Oh, Christ, Ellingham, I've been looking everywhere for you." A tall thin man approached from a side gate. "I've sorted a ride to the village but he'll wait no more than another tick of the clock."

"Richard Wilson, this is the intriguing Dorothy Bedford, John's sister. I'm only wishing her a pleasant evening. Good night, Miss Bedford."

With that Henry Ellingham walked rapidly toward the waiting taxi, with Richard Wilson hurrying behind. He did not turn to look at her, but Dorothy stood in place until the car was well out of view.

Perhaps, it was the hour, the excitement of the day or the unaccustomed whiskey, but Dorothy felt an overwhelming sense of loss. It was as if something very precious had been wrested from her. She would never see Henry Ellingham again.

Continued . . .


	14. Chapter 14

" _ **Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn . . . . "**_

 **Chapter 14 - Feckless**

Of course, Henry Ellingham had re-appeared in mother's life. The ring – and Ruth herself – were evidence of only that. Now Ruth slowly moved from the kitchen chair and thought a walk about the farm might prove helpful. What about Havenhurst would be intriguing to Londoners? Tucking the ring box into her pocket, she plunged through the fields in search of her future as an Airbnb entreprenuer.

An hour or so later she found only the weathered folly structure where she and Joan often took tea and the lake where Al and his father frequently fished. Nothing notable. Ruth never jumped on a new idea, and the appeal of the Airbnb scheme was waning by the minute. At the very least she could find a cottage for let in the village whilst educating herself on transforming the farm. If she never saw another muddy turnip, smelled another sheep, or heard another chicken squawk when picked off by the odd fox, Ruth would be happy. She was a city girl, but Portwenn would have to do for now. To that end, she entered her car for the short drive to the village.

Nosing the Mercedes into a narrow space at the estate agent's office, Ruth reckoned that a new car might also be in order. Perhaps one of the small Fords that would allow safer passing on the twisting, rural lanes. Pushing into the white painted building with bright blue trim, Ruth was taken by the light, open concept office. Vintage rugs, their colours softened by age, spotted the dark slate floor The simple wood furniture in muted hues of blue, green and grey stood out against the clean white walls. This was the sort of look Londoners would appreciate, and it could be inexpensively duplicated at Havenhurst.

"Hullo, Dr. Ellingham," George Trewith, the estate agent who surveyed Joan's farm, greeted her. "Did you hear the Doc and Louisa are having another go at the wedding? What are their chances would you say?"

"I was under the impression that I was in a professional office and not a tea shop filled with nattering ninnies. What do you have for let in the village?" Ruth wasn't in the mood for gossip.

Two agents working at nearby desks tittered as George suggested she scroll through photos of available properties. Although annoyed by his dismissive behaviour, Ruth took the opportunity to eavesdrop as the women answered telephone enquiries. West Cornwall seemed quite desirable, although - as Al pointed out - people tended to want self-catering cottages in the village.

The agent called Rowena ended what seemed to be a difficult conversation and turned to her co-worker: "Well, Mrs. High and Mighty wants her laundry done as well as the cleaning. Should we put her on to Dawn Lamb? She's our finest ironer, if a bit prickly."

As they commiserated, Ruth waited patiently to ask about this Dawn Lamb. She had been searching for someone to do her linens, and the girl she hired for cleaning was hopeless. Finally Ruth asked: "Do you thinks Mrs. Lamb might take me on. I've only the bedding and a few bits and pieces. I would be grateful."

"You might ask Al Large to enquire," the younger agent suggested to Ruth. "Dawn's very fond of him. Shame about Paul, though – gone so quickly."

"Sorry, has her husband died?" Ruth wouldn't impose if Mrs. Lamb was in mourning.

"No, no, Paul's her daughter, Pauline. Gone off to a nursing course in Bristol. Broke Al's heart that one. Hasn't he said?"

"Well, I'm his employer, not his therapist," although Ruth often thought the poor boy needed one for his Peter Pan complex.

"My Barry's the same," Rowena joined in. "Since his dad died, he's lost his way. Mucks about doing what he can to earn a quid here and there. Maybe you could take him on Dr. Ellingham. He's a good lad, only a bit aimless."

Never mind the Airbnb, Ruth should create a home for her growing collection of feckless men. The Ruth Ellingham Center for Lost Boys. Or she could shorten it to "Never Never Land," as John Barrie originally wrote. Between London and Portwenn she had enough anecdotal evidence to suggest the subject matter of her next book – men who failed to find their way in life. Ashley and Nicola would likely think the topic "awesome" and "fantastic."

Not wanting to miss Martin, Ruth asked Trewith if she could view a few cottages, perhaps this afternoon. He reluctantly looked up from his fishing magazine: "Certainly. But not today. I've a couple from London arriving at one and must show them three farms and an abandoned chapel. They've a notion to give up their jobs, move here and start a B and B. They're nutters if they want to clean up after holiday makers and cook a fry up each morning. Not for me."

"No, I suppose not. You don't seem particularly keen to work. I'll pass by a few cottages to lighten your load." Ruth's sarcasm was lost on George who cheerfully returned to his reading.

"Say, do you have an idea of where I might buy that magazine?" Ruth should educate herself on Cornish fishing – actually, any fishing. She knew nothing of the sport that Al said was very popular.

"Here you go." Trewith brought a stack of magazines from beneath his desk. " ** _Visit Cornwall_** sends these on each week. I won't put them out because the villagers don't want the emmets to know about our lakes. Your sister has a nice spot on her farm. You'll see many of my mates there in a week of so when the bream and carp run. Maybe a few tench and perch as well."

"We'll see." Ruth couldn't imagine the commotion they'd create. "I may have to remind them that the lake is private property." Leaving with a few letting adverts and several fishing magazines, Ruth felt a new purpose.

She carefully maneuvered her car along Front Hill Street and took the curve past the harbour to Martin's surgery. He ended morning hours at noon and should be free. She'd give him the ring and be on her way. She wasn't yet prepared to discuss his forthcoming nuptials, and he certainly wouldn't raise the matter - except for the ring of course.

As Ruth entered the surgery, the receptionist was exiting but stopped long enough to caution: "Little sleep last night. Very bad humour. Don't feed the bear. I'll be at the chipper."

"Morwenna, have you considered the possible benefit of speaking in coherent sentences?" Ruth hated to scold, but really!

To her credit, the girl raised her chin and spoke precisely: "You might not want to take that attitude with the Doc. He's been whinging about since the big engagement. Why's he getting married if he's so unhappy?"

"Out of the mouths of babes," Ruth intoned as she walked past Morwena toward the lion's den.

Without ceremony, she rapped once on the consulting room door and entered.

"What are you doing here?" The receptionist was right. Martin was more peevish than usual.

"Lovely to see you as well, Martin. Apparently, no one has quite graced the halls of Broadmoor as brilliantly as I did; my book is to be published at Christmas, and my only nephew is to be married."

"James Henry's your nephew as well. You're not getting dotty and forgetting about him, are you?"

"Technically, he's my great-nephew. Where is the child?"

"We're trying a new minder. Someone who came from Mrs. Tishell."

"You must be joking! That woman kidnapped your baby, and you've a minder who could hand him over at any minute. Are you as mad as she is?"

"It's not like that at all. Louisa knows her. She worked for the chemist before marrying and moving to Bude. Her husband replaced the idiot who headed North Cornwall Water, and they've returned to Portwenn. Her house is opposite the school, so it's convenient to leave off James Henry."

"Forgive me. I still quake thinking of the kidnapping. How's Louisa managing it? Has it bothered her?"

"Of course, not. Why should it. James was returned. No harm was done. The chemist had a drug induced psychotic break. It could happen to anyone, or almost anyone."

Ruth smiled. Martin never seemed to speak in absolutes, as if always excluding himself from what happened to the mass of humanity. Anyone could have a psychotic break - or almost anyone - and Martin Ellingham would be in the excluded category.

This was not the time to broach the subject of pre-marital counseling. Ruth would have to carefully prepare a way to introduce the matter. Perhaps she should talk to Louisa first and enlist her support. Martin would be the more resistant of the two.

"Speaking of your wedding - which I need not point out, you have failed to do - I have something for you."

Ruth extended the box toward Martin who looked up from a scan splashed across his computer screen

"What is it?"

"My mother's engagement ring. I thought you might want it for Louisa. A bit of family tradition. I found it at Joan's."

"I don't want it!" Martin's vehemence surprised Ruth. "Take it back to the farm."

"Darling, I've stopped by for a quick lunch – or anything else you might suggest. . . ." A grinning Louisa appeared at the door and became flustered when she saw Ruth.

"Oh, hullo, Ruth. You're back then."

"Yes, it would seem. I came into the village for the shopping and to pass by a few cottages. I've decided to move house to Portwenn."

"What's to become of Auntie Joan's farm?" Now Ruth had Martin's attention.

"Someone in London suggested an Airbnb scheme, but first I must learn about the business. Al Large will help me. He's very clever."

The look that passed between Martin and Louisa indicated their disagreement with her assessment. Ventures begun by the Larges usually ended poorly, so relying on Al Large might not be her best idea. Before either could speak, Ruth did.

"Well I must be off. I wish to be settled in Portwenn by the Christening on the 23rd. That's still on, is it?"

"We've delayed a bit," Louisa glanced toward Martin and lowered her head. "We're discussing the godparents. Martin and I have differing opinions, you see."

"I can't imagine." Ruth would say no more after her comments about their wedding. She would offer support, not judgement, although it was quite difficult

As Ruth said farewell, her hand grazed the back of a chair and she dropped the ringbox. It skittered across the stone floor where it ended near Louisa.

"Let me," Louisa bent to retrieve it. As soon as she picked up the box, she dropped it. Turning accusingly toward Martin, she asked : "What's that doing here? I returned it to Joan. Didn't she give it to you?"

"She tried," Martin looked uncomfortably at Ruth. "Auntie's just brought it. I don't believe she knew it was your previous engagement ring. Isn't that right?"

Ruth lifted hand to mouth to stifle a small cry of dismay. Oh what a stupid thing. Of course Louisa wouldn't want the same ring that held such bad memories. How was she to know of the ring's history? Joan certainly hadn't mentioned it. Ruth recalled how both daughters admired mother's ring and were saddened when their sister-in-law, Margaret, claimed it as her own.

"Why would she do that?" Joan's anger surged through the telephone line between Portwenn and London the day Ruth told her about the ring. "She hated mother, as did Christopher." Ruth consoled Joan by guessing that Margaret thought the ring valuable, although the stones were paste. Father had just begun his career and had few patients when he proposed to mother. He always promised to replace the gems, but Dorothy Ellingham wouldn't hear of it. Even when her hands grew gnarled, she wore the ring on a thin gold chain around her neck. Indeed, Ruth removed it when the undertaker came to collect mother's body. Perhaps Margaret had learned the ring had little value and dropped it into the box being dispatched to Joan. She had probably taken something more valuable from Joan's carton, thinking it a fair exchange.

Now Ruth recovered the tiny box from the consulting room floor and thought to leave quickly. "Apologies all around. I had no idea. Please don't let this ruin your happiness, Louisa. You and Martin should go into London and choose your own ring. I understand you have a new child minder, but I could be here in the evening with James. It would be good for you to go off on your own."

"I don't think so, Ruth. I don't want to leave my baby. Not just yet. I don't need an engagement ring. We'll have a private ceremony at St. Peter's and a small party in the village hall. Martin said that's all we need."

Of course Martin would want the smallest, most impersonal wedding imaginable. Ruth thought of how her plans for a simple wedding to Russell had spun away as each came up with guests who couldn't be excluded without hurt feelings. "That's the problem, my love. We waited until we knew too many people. Now we must invite the lot." At the time, Ruth thought Russell actually relished the idea of a large gathering to proclaim a new life with her. His career was ticking down, and both daughters were well set with their own families. When he asked Ruth to marry him, he quoted the old saw from Robert Browning: "Come grow old with me, the best is yet to be."

Oddly enough, mother told Ruth and Joan that these were the very words their father used when proposing to her. She wondered what Martin had said to Louisa. Perhaps the same. He and his grandfather were so close, that father may have told Martin the story of his engagement. It would be lost on another young boy, but Martin was a bit advanced for his age. Now curious, Ruth couldn't resist.

Trying for a light touch to lessen the awkwardness of the ring, Ruth turned to Louisa: "Tell me, how did Martin propose?"

"Louisa that's not necessary. Aunt Ruth is leaving. You've work at the school, and I'm very busy." Martin returned to his computer in an effort to ignore both Ruth and Louisa

"Oh Martin don't be such a pill. Let Louisa tell me."

"It's a bit personal. Nothing very romantic at all. Martin asked me and I said yes. Nothing more to it."

"I see," Ruth responded. At least she had made the effort.

"What does that mean exactly, Ruth: 'I see?'"

Oh dear, the edge had returned to Louisa's voice. Ruth would make amends. She had caused enough discontent today.

"It's only a figure of speech, Louisa, nothing more." I'll leave you then."

Neither said good bye to Ruth, and she was left with the impression that some social faux pas had been committed – by her. Under mother's tutelage, she and Joan were quite schooled in etiquette, and Ruth couldn't think of any rule breached. Many people described their engagements to family. One of Al's friends had even filmed his proposal which Ruth dutifully watched on something called "You Tube."

Why were Martin and Louisa so offended by her simple question? Could she do nothing to make them happy?

Continued . . . .

To the kind readers who posted reviews of chapters 1 through 12: In making suggested corrections to those chapters, I mistakenly deleted the story rather than replace it. When a story is deleted, the reviews are also deleted. I have re-posted chapters 1 through 12, but the reviews cannot be "recalled." As Aunt Ruth might say: "Apologies, my dears."


	15. Chapter 15

" _ **Lift me like an olive branch . . . . "**_

 **Chapter 15 – Cleansing**

Ruth had maintained her equanimity with Martin and Louisa in the few weeks preceding the Christening, but only just. Now Olivia Parsons had cornered her after the ceremony in the way dogs nuzzle sheep to pens. Unrelenting, Olivia wanted Ruth's assurance that Martin and Louisa were ready for marriage – this time. Ruth would not get out of this conversation unscathed, but then the Christening and events leading to it had been fraught with problems. Ruth had been in the thick of it and was relieved that the event had finally occurred.

If planning the Christening exemplified Martin and Louisa's marital future, there was hope. Each detail provided an opportunity for a row, but – eventually - agreement was reached. Ruth even learned why Martin did not wish to name the child James, but this she would not tell Olivia – or Louisa.

Neither parent could agree on their child's godparents, and Ruth found their bickering quite tiring. By tradition, a male child has one female and two male godparents. Martin wanted Olivia and Chris Parsons as godparents, and Louisa insisted that Roger and Maureen Fenn have those roles. In another nod to compromise, Ruth suggested they ask the vicar if two godmothers were acceptable. They were, and this is why Ruth was now chatting with Olivia Parsons, wife of Martin's only friend and niece of her dearest friend. The Christening had been put off from the 23rd but only by a week. After the kidnapping fright, even Martin thought a blessing of his child may have some worth.

The unfortunate incident of her mother's engagement ring seemed to be forgotten, but Ruth opened another controversy between James Henry's parents with the matter of his Christening gown. In the same carton as the ring, Ruth had found the Bedford family dress, wrapped in blue tissue paper - an odour of camphour about it. Lawn cloth for the garment had been handwoven long ago at grandfather's factory in Keighley, and an Irish seamstress named Cathleen Sheehan had sewn it. Ruth found the woman's name embroidered in the hem, a tradition among fine workers.

Worn first by her great-grandfather and then passed on to her mother's family, the gown was used at the Christenings of Dorothy Ellingham's children as well as the four children of her brother, John Bedford. Martin was born amongst the many cousins spawned by the Bedfords and was able to wear the gown only by chance. Ruth could not imagine how it came to be in Joan's barn, but she was thrilled to find it.

On her next visit to Portwenn, Ruth bravely called in at the cottage owned by Dawn Lamb. The woman failed to respond to Ruth's answerphone messages, so she would take the initiative.

"What do you want?" The greeting from Mrs. Lamb was what Ruth expected but less than she hoped for.

"Mrs. Lamb, I'm Ruth Ellingham. Rowena Johnson said that you are the best laundress in West Cornwall. I had wanted to chat with you about my own linens, but I understand you are quite busy with the tourists. You seem to be their favourite."

The mild praise softened the wary woman and elicited a small nod of the head. "That I am. And I know who you are. Doc Martin's aunt. That old bugger did right by me and my family. Got my son back into service with his snoring fixed. Saw Paul off to the course in Bristol with the letter he wrote."

"That must be difficult for you. Having both of your children away from the village, but it seems as if they are doing what they enjoy. That's important, isn't it?" Ruth sensed a loneliness about the woman.

"Yeah, it is. When their dad left, I had to take in the wash - anything to put bread in their mouths. They weren't easy neither. Ginger temper both of them. I had it, too, before my hair went to white. Sometimes it still sparks but not like it used to. What's in that package then?"

"It's a very old Christening dress. I found it at my sister's farm. It was passed through the family, and I wonder if you could do anything with it."

"Come in then. Let's take a peek." Ruth entered through the faded blue door, her nose wrinkling with the smell of bleach and hot irons. It was unpleasantly warm in the room, which might explain Mrs. Lamb's attire of a thin green dressing gown, stained with sweat.

Ruth handed over the package, and the laundress placed it on a table, slowly unfolding the tissue. "Saints all! Look at this will you. I've not seen such nainsook since I done the vicar's vestments. A bit discolouored, but I can bring it round for you. Cost you twenty five pounds, but it's less than a new gown, innit?"

Not one for wasting money, Ruth reckoned Mrs. Lamb was taking some advantage of her but for the precious garment, she'd let it rest. If she agreed to do her bedding, Ruth could negotiate a different fee.

"All right, then. Twenty five pounds, it shall be. Could you have it ready by next week?" Ruth hoped that would be an acceptable period.

"I'll have it tomorrow. It's not every day, I can do up this sort of thing. You pass by Tuesday at five, and I'll have it for you."

With that, Ruth was dismissed. In her last look at Dawn Lamb, she saw a sparkle in the woman's eyes, perhaps relishing the task ahead.

True to her promise, the laundress presented Ruth with a transformed gown the next day. Gone was the sickly yellow colour, and the now creamy lawn revealed featherstitching at the yoke and drawn thread embroidery around the hem. Ruth said her work was exceptional.

"No, nothing like that about me. Only doing what my own mum taught me. Pauline wouldn't have none of it. Not the cooking neither. It's little wonder Al Large let her go. She couldn't do nothing a wife needs to do. I like that boy, though. I heard you've taken him on. Get him away from that dad, are you? It's about time. I told Paul he would always be between them. Worse than a mother-in-law that one. Give me the 25 quid and the gown's yours."

"Certainly." Ruth carefully turned over the crisp 20 and 10 pound notes she had only withdrawn from the cashpoint.

"Let me find a fiver for you, then." Dawn turned her head to and fro likely looking for her purse.

"That's not necessary, Mrs. Lamb. You've saved the gown. I never expected it to look so good. I cannot tell you how grateful I am." Never sentimental, Ruth did feel a bit overwhelmed realizing that the Ellingham line had not ended and that another child would be Christened in the family dress.

"If you're sure then. I could use it. Can't we all. If you've got your bits and pieces, drop them off any time. I've some openings. I'm not ironing any more tablecloths for Bert Large 'til he pays me."

Ruth tried to help as Dawn wrapped the gown in paper from a kitchen roll, but realized she was hampering the woman who seemed to have her own way of doing things.

"Thank you for the extra, Dr. Ellingham. It means something to me. Here's your gown."

Dawn quickly ushered her to the door before Ruth could utter her heartfelt appreciation. Perhaps the woman did not want to hear it. Life had toughened Dawn Lamb, and Ruth sensed she wanted no penetration of her defences.

This, of course, reminded Ruth of her own nephew who had not fared well in life until meeting Louisa. Unless called to an emergency, he should be preparing dinner at the surgery. She'd pass by with the Christening gown – no need to wait. The building's front door was locked, so Ruth carefully made her way through the clogged garden to the rear kitchen. Did children always have this much paraphernalia? There was a pram, of course, plus a pushchair, the car seat Martin refused to leave in his Lexus and several large plastic toys that were unnecessary for a baby.

Ruth would say nothing, careful not to comment on how her great-nephew was being raised. She tapped lightly on the kitchen door, and Martin appeared in an enveloping apron, carrying James Henry.

"Good evening, Aunt Ruth, we're having asparagus and snapper for dinner. Would you join us?"

"No couscous?" Ruth shouldn't be so sarky with Martin, particularly since his greeting was a vast improvement over the last time she saw him.

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind, Martin. I'd love to dine with you but I've a meeting shortly. Would you like me to feed the child whilst you prepare the meal?"

"Not necessary. It's been done. Louisa expresses milk in the evening, and I'm able to feed James even if she's at school. What's in that package? Not a cake, I hope."

"No, Martin, it's a Christening gown. Yours actually. I found it at Joan's, and I've had Dawn Lamb wash and iron it. I thought you might want it for James Henry's Christening." Ruth pulled the toweling away, and saw Martin's eyes lighten.

"It's very nice, indeed. Look, James, Auntie brought a Christening gown for you." Martin took the baby's tiny hand and moved it slowly over the fabric. "This came from your great-grandmother who was married to my Grandfather Henry. He was a brilliant surgeon, as you will be some day."

A breeze heralded the kitchen door's opening and Louisa calling: "I'm home. Come here to mummy, James. Oh Ruth, sorry, didn't see you. How're you. Are you staying for supper?" Ruth was relieved by Louisa's pleasant greeting.

"Martin's asked, thank you, but Barry and Al want to chat with me about the farm." The same look Ruth saw the other day flitted between Louisa and Martin. "Don't worry, nothing is set in stone. We are simply talking. Nothing more.

"Louisa, I was only telling Martin that I found his Christening gown at the farm, and Dawn Lamb's cleaned it." Ruth held the dress up for Louisa's viewing.

"From Martin's family, is it?" Oh dear, Louisa did not sound as pleased as Ruth expected. She'd try to explain the tradition of it all.

"Yes, his – well I suppose it would be – great-great-grandfather had the fabric woven at his mill in Yorkshire. The Irish woman who sewed it has even embroidered her name in the hem." Ruth pointed to the bottom of the garment. "It was passed down through my mother and somehow made its way to Joan."

"Probably because no one wanted it. Push it off to the poor relatives in Cornwall. Seems like something the Ellinghams would do." Louisa's angry tone surprised Ruth.

"That's not it at all. When my parent's house was being cleared, things seemed to have gotten into a jumble. I received boxes of mother's cookery books and nothing else. Martin's mother insisted on managing the packing, and she did not give good attention to the removal company. As I said, things were not sorted properly. I am sorry, I thought you might want the gown for James, nothing more. I'll take it back to the farm."

"No, Aunt Ruth, leave it. I want James to wear it for the Christening." Martin now sounded as angry as Louisa. "I've had little say in anything, and there's no reason to take it away."

" **No** reason, Martin **, no** reason?" You hate your parents and for **very good** reason. Now you want to spoil our baby's Christening with that, that – thing." Louisa pushed the gown across the table.

Ruth was not willing to endure another senseless row between the two and prepared to scoop up the garment and leave. Lesson learned: anything from the Ellingham family —perhaps she herself – could rankle Louisa.

"My apologies, again. Let me say good evening and leave you to your meal." Ruth picked up the gown, but Martin grabbed it from her hand.

"No! Don't take it to the farm. Even if Louisa won't allow James to wear it, I want it. I'll keep it here. Thank you Aunt Ruth."

With the paper toweling still on the table, Ruth quickly left the surgery. In the few steps to her car, she had decided to sell the farm and return to London as soon as possible. Her notion of some sort of familial relationship with Martin had proved futile. She'd send Christmas cards with a cheque tucked in for the child but limit her contact with them. Her every effort had been mis-interpreted or rebuffed. Quite frankly she could enjoy a pleasant retirement in Crowthorne or any other place she chose. Her friends would continue to serve as family and many of their children thought of her as an aunt. Blood was not necessarily thicker than water.

Continued . . . .


	16. Chapter 16

" _ **Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove. . . ."**_

 **Chapter 16 – Origin Jupiter**

The next afternoon Louisa rang Ruth as she was ending her second chess lesson with Barry Johnson. "Ruth, I'm sorry about yesterday. It's only that Martin's been very heavy handed about the Christening – really everything. I've tried to explain that we must discuss things, make decisions together. He's learning, if a bit slowly. I become so frustrated I just want to . . . . ." Ruth sensed Louisa's exasperation, exactly what caused her to leave Martin only months earlier. She decided to intervene, come what may.

"My dear, I do understand that Martin is quite difficult. It's good that you are addressing your disagreements rather than resorting to anger and silence. My nephew needs more understanding than most, you see."

In a somewhat peevish tone, Louisa responded: "Yes, Ruth, so you've said – his parents are vile, his childhood was miserable. You told him to see a therapist for his blood thing, but he wouldn't do it. Now it's down to me to sort him out. He's inherited more than a Christening gown from his family."

"You may be right," Ruth would try to sooth Louisa's irritation. "Please remember that both Joan and I wore the gown as well as his grandmother and many of my Bedford cousins. Unlike Martin's father, they are quite decent people. I will probably contact them, now that we've found the garment. It would be lovely if they could use it once more. It's what families do, Louisa."

"I have nothing from my family. I don't even know if I was Christened, much less have an heirloom for James. At every turn, Martin has a ring or a gown, his grandfather's artwork, horology tools, books. . . " Louisa's voice trailed off. "Never mind, Ruth. It's something Martin and I must manage on our own. "

As it turned out, Martin and Louisa did reach an accord for James Henry's Christening attire. A few weeks later, their son looked angelic as he was handed amongst his four godparents during the ceremony at St. Peter's. James maintained his father's decorum and his mother's smile, even when the holy water touched his head. The child did not shriek as most babies might. He remained calm, almost dignified, Ruth thought.

The small group of eight and James Henry left the church for an early supper at a smart restaurant - surprisingly chosen by Martin. Somewhat removed from the village, the venue was popular with tourists who could pay its high prices. Martin had taken a private room and selected a one course menu in an effort to minimize the social nature of the event. Things did not go to plan with Chris Parsons ordering Champagne to properly wet the baby's head, and Maureen Fenn unveiling a traditional Cornish Christening cake from Wesse's bakery.

Whilst Chris poured Champagne, Martin held James Henry almost as a shield against the drink, a smiling Louisa at his side. It was then that Olivia Parsons trapped Ruth: "So they're going to have another go at marriage. Was this your idea, Ruth?"

"No, my dear, I'm afraid I have virtually no sway with Martin and Louisa. When I arrived for my sister's funeral, I finally saw the relationship that so frustrated Joan. I was arrogant enough to think I could help them. Not get personally involved, of course, but try to guide them in ways they may not have considered. I'm afraid I've come off as judgmental and scolding. After chatting with Daphne Breeden in London, I even thought to suggest pre-marital counseling. I've abandoned that idea as well."

"Well, Ruth, that's exactly what they need. When Chris told me we had been invited to Ellingham's wedding last year, I was more than surprised. Chris saw him often, but had no idea he was even dating someone. At least with Edith and Edwina, we knew them."

"I met Edwina, as you know, but not Edith. I was estranged from Martin during his medical training when he and Edith were – what is it you young people say – together. The two had visited Joan in Portwenn, and I believe Martin intended to bring Edwina here as well. My sister would have enjoyed her. She's more like Louisa, and Joan adored her.

"Looking back on it, we both clung to the idea that Martin would finally marry and be happy. That is all we ever wanted for him. We were a bit sad when Edwina married the newspaper chap but couldn't blame her."

"Oh, Ruth, no one could. Martin had every chance, and Edwina finally gave up when he refused to see a psycho-therapist. You know what he was like, and then the haemophobia brought it to a head. We still believe that Edwina's grandmother was looking after her from on high when she met James. Poor girl had been shattered in dropping Martin, but then this writer appeared to interview her. She rang me following their third date and said: 'He's the one, Livvy. I convinced myself that I could love Martin and make a life with him, but I was wrong.' They are very happy now with two fantastic daughters. Let me see if I have a photo."

Olivia reached deeply into her bag, extracted a mobile, and scrolled through it at an impressive speed. Ruth was not well versed in her smart phone's operation and should remember to ask Al about the camera function. Olivia took several snaps during the Christening, and Ruth wished she had the same facility with her phone.

"Oh here they are. I always keep the Christmas pictures, even if a bit old." Ruth instantly recognized a smiling Edwina, the reserve she had with Martin vanished. A man's arm was around her waist, and his other hand rested on the shoulder of a bright faced girl of about age 3. Edwina was holding a baby, wrapped in a white shawl, dotted with holly leaves and red berries. Ruth recognized it as the one made by the woman's grandmother and worn to Ruth's own Christmas lunch. "So that is James," Ruth looked intently at the man Edwina chose over Martin. He looked quite pleased with his small family.

"Yes, he's still with the 'Financial Times,' and has written a few books as well. Edwina told me his publisher's quite mad and has had a string of wives, but the books have been a success. I can't recall his name, but everyone in London knows of him. Quite scandalous actually."

Ruth smiled. Of course, it would be Geoffrey Hardesty, her own publisher. Small world, but she need not tell Olivia of the coincidence. Just as she would not reveal her recent conversation with Martin about James Henry's name.

"Martin, you have already registered the child's birth. Christening him with a different name is possible, and you need only change the registration. I think it's a ridiculous idea, and I'm sure even suggesting it would anger Louisa. James was her grandfather's name. If you want another first name, it is only fair that you make the second name something other than Henry. James is a perfectly proper English name, even if most of the kings who bore it were Scottish."

Ruth watched as Martin squirmed, trying to form a suitable response to her objections. He was used to having things his way, and this art of compromise forced on him by a partner and child was very difficult. Typical only child syndrome, layered with the arrogance of a surgeon, responsible for life itself. Resigning control was nothing Martin Ellingham did lightly.

"I'll not give up grandfather's name. I want my son to follow in his path - a successful surgeon and impressive man to the day he died. Louisa's grandfather was a milkman. That would be acceptable to her, but even you must agree that is not what my child should do."

"It is his life, Martin, and James should do as he pleases. Maybe he will be more like Joan than the rest of us. She had a good, fulfilling life – actually much better than I have had. Professional success is not everything, dear boy. Look at the people in Portwenn. Most are much more satisfied with their lives than the down-from-towners who clog the streets at weekends and holidays. In truth, a name has little effect on a child, unless it is something absurd. I once had a patient named 'Origin Jupiter,' who actually poisoned his mother he so hated his name. He was taunted by it throughout school and into service. You aren't thinking of something like that, are you?" Ruth's smile did not register with Martin who nearly shouted:

"Now you are being absurd, Aunt Ruth. John or any of a hundred other names could be substituted for James. I want him to be a surgeon – not a writer or something foolish."

A writer, named James, was it? Of course, Ruth now understood Martin's pique.

"You mean the newspaper writer who married Edwina? Is that why you dislike the name James?"

"Of course not." Martin thundered. "Why would you even suggest that, Aunt Ruth?"

"Because I see nothing wrong with the name. The child has the name of two grandfathers who were meaningful to each of his parents. You should not dwell on this sort of thing, Martin. Nothing good will come of it."

"I suppose you're right, but I do find it galling. . . . ."

"Enough, Martin. If you wanted to marry Edwina, you could have done so. You did not. She married someone else. She certainly isn't dwelling on you. Let it go, Martin. You are about to marry the woman you love, and you have a beautiful child named James Henry. Give Louisa some peace before the Christening. She is still regaining her strength from the delivery and having her mother in Portwenn, not to mention the kidnapping. A bit of understanding would go a long way."

Martin dropped his head and said nothing in the resigned manner he affected when he no longer wished to discuss a subject. Right then, she would return to the small house she let near the chemist's shop. Barry and Al were re-decorating it, a concession the owner allowed - at her expense of course. The foray the three made to the Wicke's store in Chelmsford had been quite entertaining. Ruth had never dithered so much over paint colours and finally selected "Soothing Stroll" for the main rooms and "Blissful Silence" for the two bedrooms. The baths and kitchen would be in "Oyster," as suggested by Barry.

The large DIY store was strangely entrancing, and Ruth filled a trolley with any manner of goods she needed for the cottage. Furnishings from her Crowthorne flat were arriving shortly, and she was eager to settle into the village. Louisa's apology had been unexpected and convinced her that she could make a life here. Besides, the holiday venture for Havenhurst Farm was becoming more viable, and she wanted to make a go of it, particularly for Al and Barry.

"Ruth, Ruth are you okay?" Olivia's anxious voice interrupted her too long reverie and brought Ruth back to the present.

"Oh, I am so sorry, my dear. That is a lovely photo. Now look at Martin and Louisa," Ruth pointed to the two as Louisa chatted with Maureen and Roger. "They look as happy as Edwina and her family. But do go on."

"Well, the wedding news flabbergasted us. Chris met Louisa a few time through PCT events, but Ellingham never mentioned her. As soon as I learned of it, I invited them for dinner, but Martin demurred. Said they were too busy with their plans. I suppose three weeks does not give one time to do much. Although from what we saw at the church that day, it looked lovely, especially the flowers.

"Your sister was devastated when neither came for the wedding. We took her to dinner, got roaring drunk, and stayed at the farm. I still remember the bloody chickens screeching the next morning. Chris went into Portwenn to see Martin, and he said everything was fine. It had all been a mistake. In fact, he was thinking of returning to London. The next thing Chris heard, it was Louisa who was in London. We didn't even know she had returned to Portwenn until Edith Montgomery saw her at hospital and told Chris. Imagine our second shock when Edith said she was pregnant."

Nodding her head, Ruth looked cautiously around the room to make certain Martin did not see her talking too long with Olivia. He always imagined some sort of female conspiracy involving him. Fortunately, his back was turned, and he seemed to be now arguing with the vicar. Poor chap, but he had likely managed worse.

"So Martin's med school friend knew about all of this?" Ruth couldn't imagine Martin's horror if he learned of this gossip. "Joan told me nothing about the doctor. Only that it was a terribly difficult time for Louisa and Martin. She did what Louisa allowed – drove her to antenatal visits, brought her meals, tried to involve Martin through not-so-subtle methods. Of course, he was set on returning to London, claiming he was a pariah in the village. It also seemed Louisa wanted nothing to do with him – until the birth. That finally reconciled them, although Martin's return to London was in the offing.

"Those first few months after Joan's death, the reconciliation was tenuous – particularly after Louisa left the surgery. When the chemist kidnapped James, I believe they finally realized how important it was to be together for this wonderful child. Now, they plan to marry once more. I can only hope they are more prepared than I have seen."

"Well, Ruth, at least you'll be on hand to pick up the pieces if the marriage falls apart. Have they set a date yet? I know Martin is anxious because of the child. Chris said he was very keen for the Christening to strengthen his parental rights. He remains terribly frightened that Louisa will leave him, and he'll have limited contact with his son. We have been thrilled at how loving Martin is with James. You could see it today. He was simply bursting at the Christening. I do so want them to make all of this work. They are both good people, but need guidance on their marriage. I really think you should suggest counseling. Martin is so afraid of losing them, that he might be prepared to do it."

" I would like nothing more. I even met a young therapist at Royal Cornwall who seems quite brilliant. Her name is Susan Chappell. Have you worked with her, Olivia?"

"I do know of her, but she treats adults rather than paediatric patients. My psych referrals result from pushy parents who are convinced their children suffer from attention deficit hyperactivity or oppositional defiance disorder. Should I have a chat with Susan?"

"I suppose it would be helpful. Find out where she studied. You know how Martin is about that sort of thing."

"You're too right." Olivia made a gesture of lifting her nose with a finger to signify Martin's educational snobbery. "If it's not Oxbridge, Bart's, Imperial or Saint Mary's, that could be a problem. I believe her PhD is from Exeter, but I think it's respectable. Let me make certain. There's little use referring her if Martin doesn't find her his equal. Chris said he thrashes GPs from lesser schools, but they've learned to laugh him off. He's such a prig, isn't he?"

"He's always been that way. Although I think Louisa has softened him a little, and James has been a good influence as well. At least there are two people in the world he finds worthwhile!" Ruth would not count herself in that august company.

Before Olivia could respond, Chris passed by with glasses of Champagne and exclaimed: "We're having a toast to James Henry." Standing between Olivia and Ruth, Chris tapped his own glass for quiet: "Mother, Father, Aunt, Godparents, Vicar – let us raise our glasses to this darling boy, James Henry. His behaviour was perfect today and a credit to his brilliant mother, Louisa, and father, Martin. Enjoy it whilst you may, for the terrible twos will soon be upon you!"

Laughter greeted the toast, and Ruth looked across the small room to an unsmiling Martin who stiffly held his glass. The vicar tipped his flute to Martin and then placed it untouched on a small table. Ruth expected Martin to do the same. Instead, he quickly emptied his glass. Oh dear, Ruth recalled that drink made Martin sleepy, and she hoped he could manage the meal. To be sure, she made her way to his side. Martin did not look pleased with her. Not pleased at all.

Continued . . . .


	17. Chapter 17

**"Moi rameau d'olivier, toi colombe du retour . . . ."**

 **Chapter 17 – Christening  
**

Ruth made her way carefully across the small room to her scowling nephew. Certainly, he wasn't peeved about the toast by Chris Parsons. It was perfectly charming and appropriate.

Placing her hand on his arm, she tilted her head to meet his narrowed eyes: "Everything all right Martin?"

"Bloody fantastic, Ruth. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you drank Champagne which is very unlike you. Do you want water to counteract the sleepiness?

"No, I'm fine." But his annoyance was clear. "Why is Parsons rushing about like a buffoon pushing drink on everyone. The vicar is an alcoholic and Louisa's nursing. Neither should be drinking."

"Neither is, Martin. Look, there's the vicar's untouched glass, and Louisa has had nothing. Don't ruin this day you've wanted for so long. Try to feign cheerfulness for the sake of your son and guests."

Her attempt to sooth Martin was met with more blustering from him: "And why aren't these idiots serving the meal? It's half six and we should've begun by now."

Before Martin could further his ire, Ruth cautiously asked: "Do you want me to check with Nathan? Their service is excellent, and they are likely waiting for the drinks to be finished."

"How would you know, Aunt Ruth?"

"I've had meals here several times. My publisher and his wife visited me a few weeks ago, and we found the food delicious. The writer who interviewed me for the 'The Times' brought me here for lunch. I've even dined alone a few times. I don't fancy cooking for myself, and it's what I did in London. I enjoy food, Martin. Most people do."

"Well if you could ask your good friend, Nathan, to get on with it, please do."

"No need for sarcasm, my dear. Why don't you organise everyone, and I'll see to the meal."

As Ruth was opening the door, a harried waiter arrived with a cart of dome covered plates and anxiously asked: "Is Dr. Ellingham ready? He said we must serve no later than half six."

"Yes, we are quite ready. Please tell me he has selected something with a bit of flavour."

"Well, he splashed out, I'd say. Hake with curry sauce and Guinea fowl with a chicory, pistachio and grapefruit tart."

"Sounds scrummy. Please do serve." Ruth was more than surprised that Martin had allowed a sauce for the fish and at least a poultry entrée. Louisa must have had a hand in it. She would compliment her for the good choices.

Ruth took a chair next to the vicar who was only too eager to provide his opinion of her nephew and many other villagers. By the time cake and coffee were served, Ruth thought she had earned her reprieve from the man. With her second cup of coffee, she excused herself for the lavatory and thought to splash water on her face.

Inside the comfortable area adjoining the lavatory, Ruth found Louisa settled into the corner of a sofa, nursing James Henry. "Oh my dear, you are missing the cake and coffee. Let me do that, and you return to the party."

"Ruth, you do realize that I am actually nursing James, and I don't believe you are lactating." Louisa's bit of humour was welcome after Martin and the vicar.

"Oh, too right!" Ruth smiled, fell onto the sofa, and closed her eyes. "It's only that I am so relieved that the Christening has turned out well. Dinner was delicious, Louisa. You made very good selections."

"Thank Martin. I've never eaten Guinea fowl – a bit gamey – but the tart was very nice. I left it to him when he showed me the menu. I would be happy with beans on toast and a Tribute ale, but Martin wanted something special for James. Is the cake good?"

"Superb. One cannot wish for better than a sponge cake covered in clotted cream and berries.

Let me splash water on my face, and I'll look after James."

When Ruth returned from the lavatory, Olivia Parsons was sat next to Louisa holding James, whilst his mother sipped Champagne.

"Godmother's prerogative, Ruth. The nursing mother can drink and dump or nurse and drink. As a paediatrician, I recommend the latter."

"I've no idea what you are talking about, Olivia." These young women were a puzzle!

Louisa raised her glass saying, "I could've had a drink and then expressed my milk and tossed it. This way, I nursed James first, now I can drink. At his next feed, the wine will be out of my system. Do you have any more of this, Dr. Parsons?"

"I believe so, Miss Glasson!" Olivia reached into her voluminous bag and withdrew a bottle, the moisture dripping from it spotting her dark blue dress. She seemed a bit in her cups as she shakily held the bottle over Louisa's fluted glass.

"We've seen to a proper Christening for James Henry. Now we must see mummy and daddy married and settled. When is the wedding Louisa? My diary is filling quickly. I have strep and flu with the children at hospital and Christmas plays for the children at home."

"Martin and I are still discussing the date. I thought half-term would be good. We could manage a bit of a honeymoon, even if we only went to Truro or Devon. I want to bring James with us, have something of a family holiday. But Martin thinks we should leave him. I'm not ready for that, so maybe we'll wait until summer term. Visit my mother in Spain."

"Oh you can't take the child on your honeymoon, Louisa!" Ruth understood her reluctance to leave the baby, but still. "I could mind him at the surgery whilst you're away."

"If you only want a few days in Truro, James Henry could stay with us," Olivia offered. "Ruth is right. A child does not belong on a honeymoon. That is the time for you and Martin to enjoy yourselves. Eat what you want. Do what you want. Have endless sex. Don't worry about anything. Chris will find a locum for Martin, and you can relax. God knows, this has been a busy year for you two."

"Olivia, I couldn't agree with you more. Taking the child on their honeymoon would be less than ideal. Louisa, get my stuffy nephew out of Portwenn and have a proper trip. James is an easy baby, and we'll manage. The important thing is that you and Martin begin your marriage with a resolve to sort out your differences and make a sound home for James. He is the dearest boy."

Ruth could sense Louisa's anxiety as she first fidgeted with the front of her dress and then smoothed her hair. She nearly emptied her glass and sighed: "I suppose you're right. Martin and I have never traveled together, not even a picnic or walk along the coastal path. If you're sure Ruth, the child minder could be with James during the day and you at night. I don't think it would be too much. And Pippa and Maureen could look in on you."

"Well your child minder is quite good, dear. You were wise to use the agency in Bude. Magdalena is a find. I know her obesity bothers Martin, but she is trying to shift weight." Ruth had helped Louisa find an OFSTED registered minder, and thought she should support the decision.

"After my mother and then Angie Grappo, Mag is fantastic. I'm very happy with her even if Martin isn't. Let's hope she stays until James is ready for reception. Only a few more years. I think Martin can endure that."

"Well, Ruth and Louisa, I think we've made progress. My darling Chris always wonders why women are so long in the loo." Ruth took James from Olivia, allowing her to stand and offer a toast: "To motherhood and marriage. What else do women need," Olivia laughed.

"Perhaps the men to make both possible." Ruth smiled fondly at the two young women. "And you, my dears, have the best. Now let's join them before Martin calls in Penhale to find us."

Soon after Olivia and Chris left Ruth at the farm, she heard her smart phone ping, signaling a text. It was from Olivia and contained a photo of Ruth holding James Henry at the Christening. He was resplendent in the restored family gown, but Louisa had begun a new tradition for her family as shown in the turned back hem.

Over the years, the initials of each child who wore the dress had been embroidered in its deep border to remember the Irish woman who had sewn it. With Ruth's help, Louisa had painstakingly embroidered James Henry's initials below those of Martin. Ruth was surprised when Louisa rang her asking if she knew how to embroider. Of course, she did. Mother had taught this basic domestic skill to both of her daughters. Ruth hadn't picked up a needle in years, but it was an art not forgotten. The next Sunday afternoon whilst James and Martin were having a lie in, Louisa visited her at the farm.

"Ruth, this is very kind of you. I had the idea but couldn't sort out how to do it myself."

"Well, my mother taught me any manner of domestic deeds that I've long neglected. We can certainly manage this bit.

For the next hour, she helped Louisa embroider James Henry's initials in the gown's hem. Louisa was an apt student and after several practise stitches using paper, she carefully pushed the needle along the light pencil tracing Ruth had made.

"This is not as difficult as I thought it might be, Ruth. I can see why it's taught to young girls. It allows them a bit of creativity and sense of accomplishment, doesn't it?"

"Yes, although I'm not certain it's as popular as it once was. Needlework now seems to be the purview of older ladies, although some of the young staff at Broadmoor are avid knitters. Did your mother teach you knitting by any chance?"

"No." Louisa's response was hasty. "She didn't do that sort of thing – or at least I can't recall her knitting. She left when I was age 11, and I tried so to forget her. I should've asked Mum a great deal when she was in Portwenn, but she stayed only a few weeks and I was not myself – the baby, you see."

Louisa seemed troubled when she talked about her mother, and Ruth gently asked her: "Do you think your mum might return to Portwenn? It would be lovely being near her grandson."

"Course not. She's made her life in Spain. She's lived there for more than 25 years, and it would be - difficult – to live in the village. She tried, but there's not much here for her."

"You're here, Louisa, and her grandchild – even Martin, although they were a bit – ehm – uncomfortable with each other."

Louisa snorted: "Uncomfortable is a nice way of saying they didn't get on. Not that either tried. It has no matter, now. She's gone again." Louisa stopped her needle and Ruth realized she was quite overcome by her inquiries about Eleanor Glasson.

"Oh, my dear. I am so sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's fine. When she left the first time, I cried for days." I later sorted it out, but for the longest time, I blamed myself."

"Eleven is a terrible age for a girl's mother to leave her." Ruth had witnessed the effect of Louisa's fierce independence, insecurity, and lack of trust arising from her mother's abandonment. "Did you see a therapist at some point?"

"No," Louisa shook her head slowly, "but it had been suggested that I do so. When I was first teaching in Guernsey, I was quite rubbish. I could understand the theories, but it was difficult for me to implement them – to relate to the children. The head teacher told me I lacked empathy and suggested I see a therapist.

"That frightened me because I could not lose my job. I re-read my psychology books from uni and reckoned I wasn't lacking empathy, only that I didn't want to become close to the children - to anyone for that matter. I was able to sort it out and finish the term. I had taken the post in St. Peter Port because it had a 3,000 pound bursary for teaching maths, and I needed money. But I was terribly homesick. When an opening occurred at Portwenn Primary, I returned to the village and have had no problems since. It might have been that I was only missed Portwenn."

This little information from Louisa explained a great deal. The poor girl, Ruth thought.

As Louisa talked, she completed the initials and held up the gown. "Will this do then?"

"I should say so, Louisa. They look perfect – as good as Martin's initials, and my mother did those."

Louisa thanked Ruth and shyly asked if she could also sew a tiny St. Piran's flag next to the initials. Ruth was taken with her sentimentality as Louisa stitched on the flag and declared: "Now the family has a proper Cornish baby."

And James Henry was a wonderful baby, as Ruth often reminded Martin. Now back at Havenhurst following his Christening, Ruth wiped a tear from her eye as she thought of Joan. Her sister was a London transplant who loved Cornwall and who would have loved her proper Cornish great-nephew. Her melancholy continued realizing that she would soon be leaving Joan's home. She had been comfortable here and felt her sister's presence both in the cottage and on the land. As soon as she moved house to the village, Al and Barry would begin refurbishing the farmhouse. They were both keen for the fishing venture, and Ruth had caught their excitement.

Her book would be released next week, and the review in "The Times" had been favourable. In her last phone conversation with Ashley, she reported that pre-orders were good and also told Ruth she was returning to the States at Christmas. Her experience with a London publisher had been a boon to her CV, and she had taken a post with a political reporting service in Washington. Her boyfriend was completing a medical residency in the area, and she shyly told Ruth of her hope to marry him.

"Don't wait too long, dear, but do make sure he is the right one. Doctors are a tricky lot, and you'll need patience to make a good life with one of them. I will miss you. You were very helpful." Ruth thought the girl seemed a bit morose and was happy to give her a little boost. It would be difficult working in the shadow of the assertive, Nicola, not to mention Geoffrey Hardesty's shenanigans.

Ashley reminded Ruth of her upcoming schedule of readings, the first at the Christmas lunch for the Royal College of Psychiatrists. Ruth was taken with the irony that only psychiatrists would appreciate a discussion of the criminally insane over wassail and steamed pudding.

Ruth was sat in Joan's worn chair, the effects of the Christening so tiring she fell asleep. Dreams have a way of presenting the reality of the day, and Ruth awakened a few hours later with a vivid vision still occupying her mind: Martin, Louisa and a toddling James Henry were walking along a beach in what appeared to be the Costa Catanbria, where she and Russell once had a holiday. Martin's arm was around Louisa's waist, and his other hand held James Henry's as water eddied at their bare feet. They looked rested and happy. Martin smiled broadly as he lifted James and held him to Louisa for a kiss. He followed suit, and the three continued their journey.

Perhaps the dream reflected the optimism Ruth experienced at the Christening. She felt the ceremony was a turning point for Martin and Louisa. They had come together to make a beautiful day for their child. It could not have been better. Ruth had great hope for their marriage and future.

She soon found that life could not be that simple for her nephew and his fiancée.

Continued . . . .


	18. Chapter 18

" **Show me slowly what I only know the limits of . . . . "**

 **Chapter 18 – Cake**

The morning after James Henry's Christening, Ruth was awakened by the chickens and with the realization that after today she would no longer be their caretaker. Barry Johnson eagerly agreed to live in the barn during the refurbishment of the house and look after the chickens and veg patch He had a Cornish lad's understanding of farm life and welcomed any small sum added to his thin pay packet.

Gwen Selkirk and her son, Jim, had purchased Joan's mutton producing sheep and were fetching them today. Ruth had gladly let the large pastures to her neighbors, Tony Hilbert and Phil Pratt for their new venture: raising Rambouillet sheep. The two had always appreciated the breed and, on Tony's being made redundant by the insecticide company, they had purchased 17 of the magnificent creatures. Sheep fanciers and photographers could be seen tramping through the fields in pursuit of the poor animals. Just as well they become completely domesticated as Ruth could not imagine the mild-mannered Tony allowing any of them a trip to the abattoir.

The younger Jim Selkirk had been recently married, and Ruth remembered to have his gift ready when he arrived at Havenhurst. She had been invited to the hen party, but demurred as she thought that would be expected of someone her age. Apparently, Gwen was a bit hurt as Portwenn hen parties were not limited to women of the bride's age or for that matter to only women. Now Ruth thought to consult Muriel Steel, the self-appointed arbiter of etiquette matters in West Cornwall, to determine if the groom's aunt could host a hen party for the bride. She would invite Pippa, the teachers, Maureen, Olivia, Morwenna, Magdalena and Joan's friends as well. Even if Louisa seemed close to no one, Ruth thought she could have a respectable turnout at the event.

After finishing breakfast, the day unfolded much too quickly. Al and Barry arrived to load Ruth's scant possessions into Bert's van, and then move most of the furniture from Joan's house to the barn. Barry's mum had given Ruth the name of the artist who transformed the furniture at George Trewith's estate agent office. Debran, as she was dramatically called, visited Havenhurst last week and lovingly ran her fingers over Joan's mismatched pieces. "Oh, Dr. Ellingham, this is exactly what I'm meant to do. We can rejuvenate these old tables and chests with a bit of chalk paint and French polishing. My husband will make any small repairs as well. They'll be better than what you'd find at Conran's or Benchmark. Save your money for bedding and such. DH Gate is the best for the B and B set from London. I'll send you my contact there. He's fantastic and will give you good values."

Ruth was so unaccustomed to having things fall into place that she marveled at how easy life was becoming in Portwenn. The chickens and house were in the hands of Al and Barry; the sheep were going to Gwen and Jim; their pasture land to Tony and Phil. If only Bert Large could find a place. She had asked him to become part of the B and B, but he stubbornly clung to his restaurant - even though Al said it was on its last pins .

Near noon Ruth hurried to Portwenn ahead of Al and Barry to meet the London removal company. Instead of the driver and one mate, the company had sent four men who quickly moved Ruth's furnishings up the steep steps to her new home. The driver explained the extra men would help fetch the contents of a holiday house in nearby Rock which had been sold as part of a divorce settlement. Ruth had vaguely heard the name of the film star being divorced but was not as titillated by this bit of gossip as the removal men thought she might be. Perhaps she would mention it to Morwenna, who always seemed to have a copy of "Hello" magazine at hand. She had proved to be quite helpful in freshening up the garden and reluctantly revealed her several weeks working at a garden center until "the unfortunate incident with the boxwoods." The girl would say no more, and Ruth couldn't imagine why she should probe.

Within an hour, Ruth's London furniture was neatly arrayed in the five rooms of the now inviting cottage. Stacks of cartons filled with books and goodness knows what awaited her, but she would slowly sort them. The house cleaner she once despaired of had brought in her sister-in-law, and the two had removed every speck of grime from the house. She would invite them to Louisa's hen party as well.

As Ruth waved off the removal company, Al and Barry arrived with Bert Large and a basket containing lunch. Bert opened the basket and modestly declared: "Now it's not my best effort. Cheese and Branson pickle on a rock bun but tasty, I'd say. Boy, bring in three more chairs and we'll have a nice lunch for Ruth. After all, she's done a good bit for you. Then I'll need you back at the restaurant. A group of ramblers is making its way from Land's End and will be a hungry lot when they arrive in Portwenn. I'm doing my chili con carne with the touch of chocolate, and I'll need you for the shepherd's pie with my secret ingredient."

"Not the anchovies, Dad. I've told you they make it taste a bit off."

"So you say, boy, but I've heard different." Bert was quick to defend his culinary endeavours.

"We'll need some decent wine for them. Not the usual plonk." Al continued to be wary of his father's offerings.

"Don't you worry, son. I've taken care of it. Now let's get on with our meal."

Ruth thanked Bert for the lunch and released a reluctant Al, who clearly preferred Ruth's employment over his father's. Barry remained to help unpack and wash dishes, glasses and cookware from her London kitchen. He argued that it wasn't really necessary as they would only have to be cleaned again after use. "Barry although I admire your lack of hygiene standards, I do not find them acceptable. Next you'll tell me that there's no need to launder bedding or towels."

His perplexed look convinced Ruth than any young woman who married Barry would have a good deal of civilizing ahead of her. But he was a decent lad and, onto four o'clock Ruth thought to stop the day's work for a chess lesson.

Barry readily agreed but Ruth's set was at Martin's. They had taken to playing a game each Wednesday night when Louisa had evening meetings with parents or the board of governors.

Ruth would pick up the set whilst Barry finished his chores. As she was mounting the steps to the surgery, Louisa was opening the gate from the garden next door. "Poor little Drew has an ear infection, and I've left him with a mound of school work. Doesn't seem fair to be sick and still have to study. Although I suppose we all have to soldier on."

"I'm afraid so, Louisa." Ruth's arms and legs ached from today's efforts but she did not want to disappoint Barry who was fascinated by chess. "I've gotten most of my things into the cottage, and Barry and I are stopping for a game of chess. I've left my set here with Martin. I'll take it and be on my way."

As the two women entered the surgery kitchen, James looked up from the rug where he was splayed on his stomach, trying to push across the bright red and green background. He didn't quite smile, but Ruth's heart gladdened when he turned first to her and then to Louisa looking equally pleased. Magdalena scooped him up and reported: "He had a very good day, and has finished a feed. He's ready for the party with Fiona and David. Aren't you my lover?"

Louisa took James from the rotund child minder and asked Ruth: "Did Olivia send you photos from the Christening?"

"Yes, they were delightful. It was very kind of you to send cake for her children as well. I'm only sorry Martin would not allow them at the ceremony. They are a bit older and would have been well behaved."

"Could you take James for a minute, Mag? Let me wrap the cake, and we'll be on our way to the Fenns. We're going to have a little celebration with the twins and the remaining Christening cake."

Louisa poked about the fridge, stood and turned to Magdalena: "Where's the cake?" The childminder looked a bit terrified, and Ruth wondered if she had eaten the cake. From Louisa's expression, she must have thought the same.

Magdalena shook her head in defence: "It wasn't me. It was Dr. Ellingham. He binned the cake. Said he wanted it gone before the dustman came this morning."

Louisa's eyes turned thunderous and she wordlessly moved toward the door to the surgery. Magdalena took this opportunity to carefully place James in his pram, don her coat and whisper a hasty "good night." Ruth made to follow her, but Louisa turned and commanded: "Don't leave, Ruth."

It was at this minute Martin entered the kitchen. He looked expectantly, nearly happily, at Louisa: "Morwenna saw you come in. Did you have a good day at school?"

Speaking too coolly, too precisely Louisa said: "Martin, Ruth has come for her chess set. But before fetching it, do you know what became of yesterday's cake? I told you we were taking it to the Fenns this afternoon. You banned David and Fiona from the Christening, and I wanted James to have a bit of a party with them. It's the least we could do for Roger and Maureen."

Ruth had been in only a few minor car accidents, and she recalled experiencing in slow motion an impending disaster which could not be controlled. This was the feeling that now befell her as she waited for the horror to unfold. She stood helplessly as Louisa glared at Martin and his lips moved but no words escaped them.

Finally, Martin spoke a bit forcefully: "I binned the cake. The Fenn children are pudgy and do not need sweets. They have no nutritional value."

"But Martin, I promised David and Fiona that they could see James today and have a little celebration of his Christening. Olivia's three children were going to have a Facetime chat whilst they had their cake with the twins."

"Louisa, you do realize that James has no idea of these children and couldn't care less about a cake or a chat. He barely utters the most basic of sounds. This is something you dreamed up with Maureen and Olivia. It is more than ridiculous."

"Look, Martin, James has no siblings, no cousins even. The closest he has to a normal family are the Parsons and Fenn children. You're too right that he won't understand, but the other children will. It will mean something to them. A way to remember our child's Christening. I'll stop at the shops and buy a cake. Maureen will understand what you've done. Fortunately, the children won't know what they've missed. They'll be happy to see James Henry."

"That's exactly what I mean, Louisa. I did those children a favour binning the cake, and I suggest you buy oranges and apples rather than sweets. What time shall I have tonight's meal ready?"

"It's no bother. I'll bring take away to the Fenns for our supper as well. You might have binned our food with the cake."

Martin dropped his head and waited helplessly as Louisa tucked James into his pram and left the kitchen, saying nothing more.

"Oh, Martin, what in the world were you thinking?" Ruth was appalled by his stupidity.

Lifting his head in defiance as Ruth saw him do a bit too often, Martin huffed: "The Fenn children are age 5 and are at the top of their range for weight and height. It is a thin edge of the wedge when you give children cake. Nothing but worthless calories, and it sets them up for diabetes, heart disease, gout . . . ."

"Please stop, Martin." Ruth held up her hand. "I saw the twins on the plat only days ago and both looked quite fit. They were kicking balls and running about. Have you seen them lately? But never mind them. You knew Louisa planned to take the remaining cake to them. While would you ever bin it? You knew what would happen. If I were you, I would have a think about your need to control your partner and what is eaten by other people's children."

Martin was silent for a moment but wasn't yet ready to concede his point. This stubbornness made him a good chess player but not a particularly good partner in a modern relationship.

"I am responsible for the health of this village, including the Fenn children. You may not agree with how I conduct my practise, but I do know what is right."

"So you say, Martin. I've no appetite for chess at the moment, so don't bother with my board. I believe I'll take Barry to Large's restaurants and ask Bert and Al to join us in a meal you would completely disapprove of."

"You might want to re-consider, Aunt Ruth. The dinner last night was filled with fats and carbohydrates. At your age you should be careful of your cholesterol levels."

"And at your age, Martin, you might want to consider the heavy-handed manner in which you treat others, especially Louisa. I will make certain that the windows in my new cottage are tightly closed tonight, because when Louisa returns from the Fenns, I suspect the village will be quite noisy, especially here at the surgery."

Ruth left the kitchen as hastily as Magdalena, but did not bother with a "good night" to her overbearing nephew.

Continued . . . .


	19. Chapter 19

" _ **Dance me on and on . . . . "**_

 **Chapter 19 – Helping**

After her unpleasant exchange with Martin, Ruth was relieved to be in the fresh December air. Several villagers greeted her by name whilst walking to her new home – the young as Dr. Ellingham and those her age as Ruth. She was beginning to feel a bit more comfortable in Portwenn.

Barry had left sherry glasses drying on tea towels along with a note saying he could not play chess but was pressed into service at Large's Restaurant. The ramblers had arrived, and Bert was struggling. Despite her aching body, Ruth thought she might help at the restaurant as well. At the least she could fill water jugs and pour wine. And that is what she did for the next two hours or so. Bert's entrees of chili con carne and shepherd's pie seemed to go down a treat, and his coffers were filled by the evening's end. Al escorted Ruth to her cottage, and she dropped into bed still clothed. When had she last done that?

The next few days Ruth busied herself in the cottage and preparing for London. She kept her distance from Martin as she was still miffed by his thoughtless treatment of Louisa. The latter rang Ruth on Wednesday afternoon saying that James was charmed by Fiona and David Fenn and seemed fascinated by his Facetime chat with the Parsons. Turning somewhat tentative Louisa asked: "Will you be playing chess with Martin tonight?"

Ah, that was it! Martin was having Louisa do his dirty work for him. He would not apologize but expected Ruth to continue with their usual game.

"I don't believe so. I'm leaving for London tomorrow and have too much to finish. Perhaps when I return. Oh, and Louisa, don't allow him to do this. Martin is a big boy and can speak for himself."

"No, Ruth, it's not that at all." The girl's hasty protest did not fool her. With only a sardonic "really, my dear," Louisa backed down.

"Okay then. He is very sorry about binning the cake and for what he said. At least ring him before you leave."

Ruth would commit to only: "we'll see."

On Thursday morning she passed by the surgery, but Martin had been called to a farm for an asthmatic child. Morwenna began quizzing her about London, and Ruth offered a few details. After all, the girl had been very helpful with the cottage garden and seemed somewhat bored.

"I'll be staying with my oldest friend, Sally Hocking, in Pimlico. Then there'll be the Christmas lunch with the psychiatrists group along with two book signings at the Doyles stores in Charing Cross and Westfields. On Sunday morning, I'm meeting my friends, Daphne and Howard Breeden, for an Advent lessons and carols. I'll return to Portwenn in the late afternoon – probably exhausted!"

The receptionist seemed eager to hear more, so Ruth mentioned that Sally and Daphne wanted her to remain in the city during the Christmas season. Ruth lowered her guard a bit and confessed that it was difficult being in London without Russell Fairhill. He was an economist by profession but a pianist by avocation, and Christmas music was his favourite. Of course, she did not want to disappoint Louisa who had thrown herself into planning James Henry's first Christmas. But that was not what caught Morwenna's attention.

"Was Mister Fairhill your husband, then?" The receptionist's eyes widened when Ruth dropped his name.

"No, and I have prattled on too much. He was simply a good friend, a dear friend. Actually, we were to be married, but he died." Ruth had no idea why she was going on so. "Life sometimes isn't as we planned. You are young, so do make the most of it. Now, I'm fetching a few things for Louisa in London. Is there anything I can bring for you?"

"Now don't tell Al, but I think he wants to read your book. Could I maybe buy one from you and give it to him at Christmas. It would be a surprise, you see."

"Of course, but you needn't buy it. I intend to have some shipped to the cottage, and I'll hold one for you. You can tell me what to write on the flyleaf."

Morwenna was generous in her thanks, and her blush made Ruth wonder if she had a crush on Al. She certainly hoped so!

Ruth had agreed to purchase a few Christmas items in London that Louisa could not find on-line. One was a lemon curd that Martin recalled from childhood, and Louisa had discovered a receipt that used it as a glaze for carrots rather than in a tart or cake. The other was a Scottish shaving balm that Martin wore when he first met Louisa. Although nearly scentless, it had an essence of myrrh which she liked.

Al and Barry were busy at the farm on Thursday afternoon, so Ruth prevailed on Bert Large for the trip to Bodmin Parkway by offering to fill his petrol tank. The van was perhaps the most uncomfortable conveyance she had traveled in, save for the donkey Russell dared her to ride in Spain. She tried to be polite, but Bert was as hapless a driver as he was a chef. Ruth tried to remain quiet so that he could concentrate.

"Cat got you tongue there, Ruth?" Bert could never take a hint.

"No, no at all. I thought you might want to focus on the roadways. They are a bit twisty, aren't they?"

"This is Cornwall, Ruth, that's what we have: narrow lanes, farms, fish and beautiful scenery. I tell Al this is all we need to be happy, but he wants more, doesn't he? The fishing B and B means a good bit to him. I can't say I didn't think of it myself, but with the restaurant being so busy, there's little more I can do. Al's better helping you. Barry, too. My boy's got a head for business. Not as good as me, mind you, but good."

Ruth marveled at Bert's hubris through the rest of the journey. But then, he was a very happy man and managed to keep body and soul together for probably 60 years. How could she say his thinking wasn't correct?

The train was soon filled with people traveling to London for shopping and the many events that heralded Christmas in the city. The merriment that filled the carriages continued into Paddington Station, where a mime approached Ruth, held mistletoe above her head, and bent to mimic a kiss on her cheek. Smiling, she dropped pound coins into his charity tin and wished him a Happy Christmas.

That evening, she and Sally Hocking had a catch up on each other's lives, including the Parsons' attendance at James Henry's Christening. "The five of them will be here for Boxing Day this year. My brilliant niece, Olivia, wants it that way. Christmas in Truro and Saint Stephen's Day in London. They simply overwhelm me, but I love it. You'll see this year. There's nothing better than being with children at Christmas. Spinsters like us still have a place in the world when our nieces and nephews are about.

On Friday, she and Sally arrived early at the imposing building housing the Royal College of Psychiatrists. A former registrar from Broadmoor was on the event committee and rushed to Ruth, embracing her fondly. "Oh how we miss you! Many patients ask about you each day. We had to assure several of them that you had, in fact, retired and not been murdered by one of them. So sorry – I didn't mean it that way. But you know how they are – they don't trust anyone, especially each other."

"I completely understand. My book covers many of their experiences, and the better pieces describe those we could actually help. I hope you find your calling at Rampton. These people need us so much. During a career treating them, my life was never dull."

Nor was the Christmas lunch dull, as Ruth could have predicted. Martin complained of the quirky village folk, but he had never been part of the odd collection of people who went into psychiatry. The observation that many entered the field because they were so in need of it themselves seemed especially true today.

Ruth spotted Dr. Winifred Kiehl and her twin sister, Dr. Waltraut Kiehl, almost immediately. The two septuagenarians had dressed identically throughout their lives, attended the same college at Cambridge, and pursued a career in psychiatry together. They were one of the few successful psychiatric duos who treated patients together. Today, they were attired in matching red dresses with flowing scarves and bejeweled fascinators somehow attached to their thinning grey hair. Ruth would make a point to avoid them.

The reading from her book elicited the usual arguments which were _de rigueur_ in any gathering of her profession. Nineteen minutes into the reading, she lost control of the audience and allowed them to squabble amongst themselves, each espousing a favoured theory. Her former registrar hurried to the lectern to restore order, but not before a Russian psychiatrist took up a balalaika and began playing what Ruth could only think was a dirge. That caught the attention of her colleagues, who responded more to his funereal song than to Ruth's reading. She knew it: her book was much too happy for this crowd.

As soon as Ruth could respectably leave, she and Sally hurried to a taxi, laughing all the way: "Oh God, Ruth, were we ever like that?"

"We're still like that. We only have learned to hide our neuroses better than our colleagues. Although I do think many of them appreciated my book and the work we have done amongst the criminally insane. Certainly, Parliament has been kind to us in the last few years, and for that we must thank you. Your book about squeezing money from that lot will certainly be a best seller."

After the hubbub at the reading, the two friends had an early evening. The book signings scheduled for Saturday would be followed a party that Geoffrey Hardesty insisted she attend. Sally agreed to accompany her for protection.

The next morning Ruth was ready before she received the text from Vlad, Hardesty's driver. He was a young Pole and, like those of his generation, he could communicate only through texts. A simple mobile call would not do. Ruth felt a bit pampered as the driver tucked her into the back seat of a spacious German sedan and handed her a beaker of coffee: "The way you like it, I think. No brandy, only a little milk."

With this introduction to her day, Ruth wondered what may lie ahead. Vlad pulled into the "no parking" zebra lane directly in front of the bookstore, and Ruth saw a queue wending its way down the street. Oh no! There must be a popular author here as well. Ruth feared the store would be filled with screeching teens or young mothers enchanted by a fiction author of note.

Vlad helped her from the car and nearly carried her the few steps to the locked front door of Doyles. He loudly knocked on the thick glass and caught the attention of a man dressed in a manner Ruth associated with middle-aged film stars. Holding up his watch, the man indicated that the store was not yet open. The driver cleverly pointed to Ruth and then to a stack of her books displayed inside to show that the author had arrived.

The door was quickly opened, and Vlad handed her over to the apologetic man who introduced himself as Sebastian. "And what is your last name," Ruth queried, knowing only that she was to meet a store representative by the name of Jones.

"Jones, Sebastian Jones, but I prefer using Sebastian only. Jones is too common, wouldn't you say?" Like Debran, the furniture finisher, and Vlad, the driver, Ruth now met a third mono-named person. Was this a trend, amongst many others, she somehow missed?

"Where are your people, Doctor Ellingham?" Sebastian seemed slightly annoyed.

"People?" Ruth wasn't certain if he was referring to other psychiatrists, her patients, the police with whom she worked. Who exactly were her people?

"You know. The tedious Nicola and her lackey, Ashley. The two have been absolutely hysterical all week. They have texted me constantly. I finally said to Finn – Finn, he's my partner. We may marry, but not yet. He still has some maturing to do. At any rate, I told Finn on Thursday evening: 'One more text from either girl, and I'm calling off the reading. I don't care how popular true crime books have become, I won't be ordered about by someone with a second from Saint Andrews and her American ninny.' Those are **your** people, Doctor Ellingham."

"Well, Ashley did say they would be here, but I don't think I'll actually need them. In fact, I was going to have them fetch some Christmas presents for me. They seem to enjoy shopping."

" **Need** them? Of course, you'll **need** them. Have you seen the throngs outside? They are here for you. Those people want to buy copies of your book. We haven't had such a large turnout for a non-fiction since Boris Johnson's biography of Churchill. Could you start signing copies now, so that we'll have them on hand for last minute shoppers. They'll grab anything signed by the author. This is my assistant, Katrine. She'll explain what to do. I'll sort out the crowd, so that we can begin by nine. Otherwise, you won't be finished in time for Westfields. The manager there said a queue is already forming. True crime is definitely the genre this year."

Katrine was a pleasant, soft-spoken university student from Norway whose blonde hair was gathered in a ponytail similar to Louisa's. There the similarity ended, as she had neatly arranged a collection of pens for Ruth to use at the well-organised table. After signing about thirty or so books, Ruth heard a commotion and spotted two young women hurrying toward her. On closer look, she recognized Ashley and Nicola, both horribly disheveled, each holding a red paper cup from that American coffee shop. Ashley was clad in tight jeans tucked into brown boots and a white jersey bearing large red stains that Ruth hoped were from wine rather than blood. Nicola looked even worse with torn tights, an overly short dress and no shoes. What had the two been getting onto this morning?

Sebastian approached the table, disapproval battling with outrage for control of his handsome face. "I presume these are **your** people, Dr. Ellingham?"

Continued . . . .


	20. Chapter 20

" _ **Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon . . . . "**_

 **Chapter 20 – People**

In the harsh light of Doyles, Ruth wondered how her life had come to this. Her fate as an author was in the hands of two scatty young editors who somehow talked her into these book signings. With a stiffening of her spine, she reckoned there was nothing to do but crack on. She had survived prisoners wielding knives, sharpened combs, and any manner of hand-crafted weaponry at Broadmoor. By contrast, today was a piece of piss – as Bert Large might say.

"Oh, Doctor Ellingham, we are so sorry," Ashley exhaled and Ruth was repelled by the odour of drink. "My farewell party was last night, and I'm afraid it got a little out of hand. We would never forget you, so we texted Vlad, and he picked us up from a club in Vauxhall. He's gone to find us shoes and such."

Nicola chimed in, her officious way softened by intoxication: "Don't worry. We've been working with Sebastian all week, and everything is in order. Did he bring you water?"

"No, but Vlad brought me coffee. I'm fine." Water was not Ruth's concern at the moment.

"But you must have water. You must stay hydrated. The queue will exhaust you without proper hydration. I'll be in the lavatory for a minute, then I'll find Sebastian and fetch your water. Remember: hydration is critical."

"Of course, Nicola, I understand. Whilst you're in the loo, you might see if there is any mouthwash about as you and Ashley could certainly use it. In fact, sort yourselves out and don't worry about my water."

"But we're **your people,"** Ashley protested.

"Katrine is perfectly capable of being my people until you and Nicola are ready for the role. Do not embarrass Geoffrey or yourselves any further. You have ten minutes to become presentable. Turn your jumper the other way round, Ashley; Nicola can remain behind the table so that we don't see her feet. Really you two!"

It was all Ruth could do to not laugh at the silly young women who tried to have a night on the town and work the next day. How many times had she and Sally Hocking done just that? And they were often in worse states than Ashley and Nicola.

Returning to signing books, Ruth cared less about the legibility of her signature and more the speed. If the last minute Christmas shoppers were not discerning about the books they purchased, why worry about the clarity of her name? Katrine moved the open books smoothly to Ruth, and they had established a good rhythm when Sebastian re-appeared carrying several assorted waters, an ice bag and what appeared to be a small, sculptured pillow.

"I was told that you need hydration, so I've brought Italian, Scottish, and French water. The ice is for your hand should it cramp, and you can rest your wrist on this warmer. It has lavender oil in it to relax you. Now I'm opening the doors in three minutes, so be prepared."

Ruth nodded, only a little concerned about the ominous tone of Sebastian's warning. The faint aroma of lavender seemed out of place in the hurly-burly of Doyles, but it was quite pleasant and soothing. The signings might prove enjoyable.

Then the hordes arrived.

After her ninth book and smile, Ruth noticed that those in the queue seemed a bit unlike the men one might ordinarily see in a bookstore. Tattoos were in evidence, any manner of body piercings on display. Their clothes seemed more what Al and Barry might wear to muck out the sheep pen. Standing behind them were a number of older women, clutching books, patiently waiting their turn.

The lads moved quickly through with no request for a name, only the occasional remark: "any filicide or stranglings," "my mates call me The Ripper," and – the most chilling – "killing is the only true form of self-expression." Ruth murmured "thank you," somewhat disturbed by their comments.

When the first older woman appeared, the queue stopped: "It's Doctor Ellingham, isn't it. I've been here since seven only to say hello and thank you for my boy, David. You seen him at Broadmoor and now he's got a job with the Great Western Railway. Cleaning the toilets but still it's a job. Could you write 'Happy Christmas, Davey, from your mum,' if you please."

"Of course," Ruth obliged, wondering which of the many Davids she had treated belonged to this mother. The parade continued as each of the women seemed to have a son once or now incarcerated at Broadmoor, Rampton, or another UK prison. Ruth could not imagine why the sons might read her book, but most of the mothers whispered a variant of: "He asked 'specially for this. I'll send a cake and some pants and vests, but your book was what he wanted." The march of mums finally ended, and a mixed group of people arrived – some sisters, girlfriends or wives of prisoners, also buying the book as a gift. Others were graduate students or literati who read each well-reviewed book on "The Times" Christmas list.

Several of Ruth's former colleagues came toward eleven o'clock, perhaps thinking they were needed to bolster sales. She tried having a chat with them, but Sebastian stood nearby making waving motions to push them along. Ruth was just as happy to do so and offered apologies. They moved toward the store's coffee bar, waving to her, probably hoping that their planned books would be as well received.

Sebastian stopped the queue to ask if she wished to use the lavatory. Ruth said not, but it reminded her that the editors had not returned. "Sebastian, what have you done with Nicola and Ashley? Not killed them, I hope. Although 'Murder in Doyles' does have a nice ring to it."

"If only! No, they aren't worth the trouble. They're sleeping on the floor of my office. I could not send them to Westfields in their condition. The store manager is a martinet and would have my goose if she saw their antics. Let's get on with it. If we stop in twenty minutes, you can be at the other store by one o'clock. I'm afraid a good many teenagers and uni students are waiting there. Try to be kind to them. They're probably gamers wanting to create something from your book. It's a big business isn't it?"

With a sip of water and an adjustment to her wrist rest Ruth nodded in confusion, and Sebastian motioned the next person through. Finally, he clapped his hands saying: "I am terribly sorry. Doctor Ellingham is now leaving for our store in Westfields. You may see here there at one o'clock." Ruth was mortified when Sebastian began to applaud, and others in the store joined in. Katrine patted her arm: "You have been so kind. No one has ever been as kind as you, Doctor Ellingham."

Vlad emerged from behind a column, furiously texting as he walked toward Ruth. "Those two _glupie dziewczyny_ need to hurry. I'm not waiting any longer."

Knowing not a word of Polish, Ruth completely understood Vlad's comment and wondered, too, what had become of the "stupid girls." Katrine helped with her coat, took Ruth's left hand and bowed slightly: "I will save your signing hand. You have more work to do." Sebastian followed by bending and kissing Ruth's left hand. "You have been most gracious, and I can't wait to tell Finn how lovely you have been. On behalf of Doyles, thank you."

Nicola and Ashley soon materialised, looking somewhat better than three hours earlier. A heavy grey jumper replaced Ashley's soiled jersey, and Nicola had draped a blue merino shawl over her skimpy dress. New black tights and ankle boots covered her legs and feet. They were nearly presentable, with their makeup refreshed and hair combed.

As Ruth walked through the store, shoppers stood aside, some calling to her "well done" or "Happy Christmas." Vlad had secured the same illegal parking spot and pushed Nicola into the rear seat first, followed by Ruth and then Ashley. A hamper of sandwiches and tea rested on the floor, and the three had a somewhat enjoyable lunch as the driver expertly manoeuvred through the heavy traffic to the newer Westfields Center. In the car park, Vlad left the large sedan as close as possible to the book store, took Ruth's arm, and gallantly escorted her to the next book signing. Suitably subdued, Ashley and Nicola trailed behind.

As she approached the store, another long queue had formed, but its composition was very different from that in Charing Cross. True to Sebastian's description, those waiting were teenage boys along with male and female university students.

"Oh God, the nerds are here," Nicola groaned. This will move fast, no one will talk to you. They'll mumble and mutter and race home to their computers. In two weeks' time, someone will post a game based on your book. Geoffrey is furious about it, but he can only protect his books by enforcing the Copyrights Act."

"I've no idea what you are talking about, but should we ring him? Is there anything we can do?" Ruth wasn't certain if she should be concerned about a matter she did not understand.

"No, he expects it. I suppose it will help with the marketing. Sometimes the gamers leave out the best bits, so there is an uptick in sales."

"But why do they need an autographed copy if they're only going to use it as a reference book," Ruth was curious about the strange appeal of her book.

"It's the only way Doyles will sell them today. Buyers must pay full price for a signed copy. Depending on how sales proceed, booksellers may cut the price by the week before Christmas. If sales are good, the prices will hold. The little nerds have pots of money, and their parents will pay anything to keep them occupied and out of their hair. You are being kind to them, Doctor Ellingham. They live to create their silly, useless games."

At Doyles, the manager briskly introduced herself as Monica Brittleby. She seemed every bit the martinet Sebastian described, and Ruth winced when she squeezed her strained right hand in welcome. Dressed in a black trouser suit that clung to her thin frame, Brittleby took control. Ruth and her people were led to a large table bearing one tray with broad nubbed pens, hand cleanser, and tissues. Another held small bottles of Quangoff water from Saint Clether. Ruth wondered if the store manager knew she was now living in Portwenn and was pandering to her with Cornish water.

A spotted face teenager, wearing green rimmed spectacles and lank hair to his collar, rolled a trolley of books next to the table. Brittleby issued her orders: "You with the blue scarf - Archie will hand you the book; you will open it and pass it to Doctor Ellingham who will listen to the purchaser's request, comply with it, and then hand it to the girl in the grey jumper."

"We are Ashley and Nicola," the American's sense of equalitarianism could not be quashed.

"I'm certain you are, but for now you are to move people through the queue quickly. Sebastian sold nearly 300 books this morning, and I will exceed that. Do you understand?"

Ruth and her people nodded in unison, and Monica Brittleby signaled the first book buyer to the table. Unlike Sebastian who scurried about the Charing Cross store, the manager stood in place, ready to intervene should someone chat too much.

Ruth actually enjoyed the teenagers, some of whom shyly requested: "make it to Jack" or "it's for my power-up partner, Anish." One young lad barely mumbled: "Please write 'To Charlotte for her overkill achievement in Minecraft.' Now shall I add my name or only give it to her?" Ruth counseled that his name might be more meaningful to the recipient, and he again mumbled: "Okay, write 'from Simon in A level physics.'" His pained look and deep blush hinted that his regard for Charlotte might be unrequited. Ruth remembered that sensation too well and touched his hand with an encouraging smile.

Leaving Ruth, the young bobbed their heads in thanks and began to immediately peruse the book. Groups of them gathered about the store, texting and sending what Nicola called Instagrams and tweets to others waiting at their computers.

The initial rush of the young over, more conventional readers approached Ruth. Most mentioned "The Times" review and gushed that her book sounded fantastic or fascinating, but – thankfully – not awesome. Her hand began to cramp, and Ms. Brittleby sent Archie for an ice bag, but it made signing a bit awkward. Taking a minute to flex her hand, Ruth worried that she had not escaped the Lupus Nephritis that felled her mother. Banishing the thought, she was able to continue until four o'clock when the store manager reluctantly closed off the event. Then Monica Brittleby actually made a call from her mobile: "Three hundred and forty one books, Sebastian," she crowed. "My exile at Westfields is over. I'm coming back to Charing Cross, and you'll be here by next week!"

"What a bitch," Nicola did not whisper _sotto voce._ Ashley was already affronted by the manager and nodded her assent. "I'm telling Mr. Hardesty how nasty she was to Doctor Ellingham. And the water wasn't even chilled."

Ruth was too tired to contend with her simpering people and actually did agree with their assessment of Monica Brittleby. She was more pleased to know that the number of books sold today would mean a higher royalty level and an increased budget for the B and B. She would text Al and Barry to let them know.

Before leaving, Monica Brittleby snapped a photo of Ruth standing by a display of her book. "We'll tweet this immediately, Doctor Ellingham. This has been an extraordinary day for Doyles. Do give Geoffrey Hardesty my best."

"Of course," Ruth tried to be gracious rather than amused as her scowling people and Archie made obscene hand gestures behind the back of Monica Brittleby. She would scold them in the car – or possibly not. What she would do in the car was ring Martin and Louisa, her real people, her family in Portwenn.

Continued . . . .


	21. Chapter 21

" _ **Dance me on and on . . . "**_

 **Chapter 21 – Too London**

After leaving the second book signing at Westfields, the driver dropped Ashley and Nicola at a coffee shop off High Street. Ruth's thanks to them was suitable, if not effusive. After all, they had been terribly trying today. "But they're quite young aren't they, Vlad." Ruth felt it necessary to excuse their foolish behaviour to the young Pole.

"Silly girls, stupid girls," Vlad grumbled, not nearly as forgiving as Ruth. "Mr. Hardesty will not be pleased."

"I suppose you're right," Ruth sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, wondering how she could possibly beg off her publisher's party. It was the last thing she wanted to do. The buzzing of her mobile interrupted her rest, and she reluctantly answered: "Ruth Ellingham here."

"Oh, Ruth, hullo, it's Louisa, Louisa Glasson. How was it? The book signing, of course."

Ruth recounted the high points of the day including her wonder at the mothers buying books for their imprisoned sons. Remembering that Louisa's father remained a guest of Her Majesty, she blundered further: "Perhaps your father would like the book as well."

"No, I don't believe so. He seems to enjoy reading about gardening and such." Ruth noticed the defensive tone in Louisa's voice and quickly changed the subject to James Henry, one that always brought her round. She listened patiently as the young mother described her son's last few days, down to the new cereal he had eaten. He was quite excited about Father Christmas, an unlikely sentiment for a child of 6 months, but not one Ruth would voice. She had witnessed Louisa's anger when Martin expressed a similar thought.

Before ringing off, Ruth assured Louisa that she would bring the lemon curd, shaving balm, and a few other bits for Christmas and Boxing Day. Martin took the phone to remind Ruth that London weather could be quite inclement at this time of year: "Cover your head and carry an umbrella," he advised.

Ruth smiled at this role reversal her friends described – an adult one knew from infancy now treating you as a child. She found it quite endearing, particularly from Martin. "Yes, my dear. Suggestion duly noted. I shall be very careful."

"Good," his typical response. "I'll ring off then." And he did.

"Was that your family, Dr. Ellingham?" Vlad caught her eye in the driver's mirror.

"Yes, Martin, my nephew, and Louisa, his – well I suppose - his fiancée. They are to be married in a few months. They have a baby, James Henry, a dear child." Ruth was surprised at her emotion in simply acknowledging that she had family. People rarely asked that question, assuming that she was alone in the world. A reality she accepted until moving house to Portwenn.

"We are here, now, Dr. Ellingham. At your friend's flat. I will return at eight o'clock to fetch you. Please text me if you will be later." Vlad opened the car door for Ruth and saw her safely into the building's vestibule. Martin would surely approve.

Sally was quite atwitter when Ruth entered her flat to the strains of a telly playing some sort of news programme. "Oh do tell me everything, Ruth – but only after Cameron finishes. I must catch up on a few tidbits from earlier today."

Ruth removed her coat and fell into a cushioned chair, somewhat transfixed by the figure on the screen and very willing to wait for more chat. She was simply that tired. What seemed like minutes later, but was more than an hour, Sally gently touched her arm: "Ruthie, you must dress for the party. It's half seven. Are you certain we should attend?"

"Yes, of course," Ruth rose stiffly from the chair, "Geoffrey insists. And he has been quite generous to me. I will be ready in a jot." Sally looked quite elegant in a shimmering black dress, her silvery grey hair arranged in the effortless style Ruth had always envied. Lank hair was her nemesis, and clothes would never look as good on her as they did on Sally. She had always been the beauty to attract men, whilst Ruth had the wit to keep their interest. Yet here they were, never married, relying on a niece and nephew only a little family.

Ruth quickly readied herself and stepped carefully into what would have been her wedding dress. Lips pressed together, she recalled the day Sally spotted it in a small shop near Pimlico. It was terribly expensive, but Sally urged her on: "Russell will be gobsmacked! The colour suits you very well." Cut in a simple style of jacquard silk, the deep periwinkle was quite nice against Ruth's greying hair. "Your mother's pearls will be beautiful with the dress." Sally enthused. "Then you'll need only something new and something borrowed." The new and borrowed were never needed as Russell died weeks later, a month before their wedding day.

"Oh, Ruthie you're wearing the dress!" Sally brought folded hands to her mouth in surprise and then embraced her friend. "You're a brilliant author and must look the part. Russell would be very proud of you – we all are. Now our coach and four awaits!" The two old friends met Vlad in the vestibule and soon arrived at Geoffrey Hardesty's home in Marlyebone, another world altogether.

Trees in front of the late 19th Century structure glittered with faerie lights, and the theme was carried inside with doorways and windows outlined in the same manner. In the impressive foyer, a string quartet played near a tree scattered with more lights and ornaments.

Ruth handed her modest wool coat to a pretty young woman who first took Sally's fur wrap. She must find a corner in which to perch so that her friend could be released into the crowd. This was her milieu more than Ruth's, and she would leave her to it. Taking a glass of wine from a tray offered by a smartly dressed man, Ruth made her way to a conservatory off the foyer. The glass walls and vaulted ceiling were illuminated and highlighted what Ruth imagined were orange and lemon trees, although some appeared to be fig or olive. Only her publisher would have an orchard in his home!

"There she is. The woman of the hour," Geoffrey Hardesty boomed as he folded Ruth into his arms, nearly spilling her wine. "I was just speaking with Monica Brittleby at Doyles. You attracted quite the crowd, and we have massive on line orders. I couldn't be happier. But do let me apologize for the two girls – what are their names then?"

"If you mean Ashley and Nicola, no apology is needed." Ruth feared for Nicola's job if not for Ashley who had secured a post in the States. "They were quite helpful throughout the process. Nicola did yeomen's work with the galleys and proofs – I'm simply hopeless with punctuation. I certainly appreciate everything they did for me."

"You are too kind, Ruth. Vlad told me about their antics this morning - any other author would demand they be sacked. Although I believe Ashley is returning to Canada, isn't she?"

"Actually, the States – Washington – but Nicola has great promise. You should keep her on."

Ruth had no idea why she was championing her insufferable editor, but she hated to see anyone made redundant, particularly at Christmas.

Geoffrey dropped the matter when joined by his wife, Vivienne, who gushed her greeting to Ruth. She had quite enjoyed the couple when they visited Portwenn, but now they were being what Russell derisively called "a bit too London." Geoffrey soon left Ruth with a kiss on her cheek, whilst looking over her shoulder to another guest. A minute later Vivienne did the same, leaving Ruth happily alone in the citrus scented room. She took a small plate of food from a nearby buffet, noting the mound of Cornish lobster anchoring one end of the table.

Having not eaten since midday, Ruth was quite hungry and tucked into the assortment of salads, cheese, and ham. Sitting alone at a small table, she quietly observed people selecting food. Women took small bits and pieces of vegetables and plain fish, whilst the men stacked their plates with lobster, thick slices of roast beef, and caviar piled on thin wafers. Many wore the emblem of Parliament, and Geoffrey likely invited them as they were embroiled in debate over intellectual property rights.

Little wonder Sally eagerly assented to join Ruth at the party and was consulting the telly for today's news. Ruth had tried to forget this aspect of London life, particularly her annual battle for funds needed by Broadmoor. Now, her money worries centered on transforming Joan's humble farmhouse and land into a proper fishing B and B. With today's promise of success, sales of her book might actually finance the venture.

Her musings were interrupted by a dark haired man dressed quite formally in a dinner jacket and starch front shirt. "May I join you, madam?"

"Of course. I'm afraid I'm not much for parties, but I should not be anti-social," Ruth motioned him to a chair whilst trying to sort out his accent.

"We have only a short time, but it's many hours since I've eaten. Firstly, classes this afternoon and then rehearsal. I play cello with the quartet," he explained.

"I heard you as we arrived. It was a Bartok piece, wasn't it?" Ruth recalled it as one whose rhythm and discord always confounded Russell.

"Yes, one of his more obscure works, but I love it. I played it at my audition for the quartet. It has been my good luck piece since then."

"I'm Ruth Ellingham, and Mr. Hardesty has just published my book. To show his appreciation, he forced me to attend this party," Ruth drolly noted.

The man laughed: "I am Antonin Bellasai, and Mr. Hardesty has just paid me a handsome fee. To show my appreciation, I shall provide music for the next few hours."

Ruth smiled at his clever rejoinder, and they amiably chatted as he ate from a well filled plate. It reminded her of the endless food Martin and David Estilow once consumed, yet plead hunger only hours later. If she could sell the young male metabolism in a diet tablet, Ruth could properly do up the farm. As the cellist stood to leave, he was approached by a tall, young woman dressed in a severe, black evening suit.

"Darling, I've been searching everywhere for you. I haven't had a chance to meet Hardesty and discuss my book. You must introduce me. It is very important – for both of us." Here, the woman placed her hand on Antonin's shoulder and looked meaningfully into his eyes.

"Yes, yes, I understand it's important. But I'm working, not here as a guest. Perhaps this kind lady can introduce you. Mr. Hardesty has recently published her book." Antonin directed a pleading look toward Ruth. "Miss Ellingham, this is my wife, Rachel. I hate to ask, but I will play another Bartok piece if you could make the introduction.

"We'll see," Ruth's made her response purposely oblique. Of course, she would find out what sort of scheme the young woman had in mind. She was pretty enough to gain Geoffrey's attention on her own. Yet if she seemed genuine, Ruth would be gracious.

"Why don't you fetch food and drink and join me," Ruth invited.

"I'm too nervous to eat, and I'm afraid to drink. I'll only fall asleep and that will never do, will it?"

Antonin's wife did seem quite anxious, and Ruth thought a bit of chat might settle her. "Now what is it you do, my dear?" Noting her thin frame and erect posture, Ruth imagined she had written some sort of dreadful book about Pilates or yoga, both quite the vogue - even in Portwenn.

"I'm a psychotherapist and plan a book about what I describe as marriage recidivism. Couples who don't understand how their repeated bad behaviours affect their lives."

It was fortunate that Ruth was not eating or she may have choked, so surprised was she at the girl's response. Blinking a bit, she regained her composure: "That's quite interesting, I'm a psychiatrist and until my recent retirement I assessed the criminally insane at Broadmoor. My book is about recidivism amongst them. I suppose marriage has some of the same aspects."

"Strangely, it does. I first worked with victims of child abuse, some of whom develop psychopathic personalities. This piqued my interest in the effect of childhood trauma on marriage. Obviously a connection that only a few wish to acknowledge. I've had several high profile patients – film stars, musicians, that sort of thing. Of course, I can't mention them in the book, but I can provide general information about their cases. All very difficult as you can imagine."

"You seem quite young. . . " Ruth began.

"I'm 31," the young woman interrupted, perhaps this was a comment she often heard.

"I was age 25 when I finished clinical training at Bart's and have been practising since then. Being young could be a disadvantage, but I find most couples will overlook my age if they are serious about preserving their marriage. You must have been in the same position – working with deranged prisoners – not something most women would want to do.

"You're right, of course." Ruth had heard this comment throughout her career. "Unfortunately, when I finished my training years ago, psychiatry was not as well regarded in England as it is now. And certainly no one would consult a female psychiatrist. I had little choice but to work in the penal system. I soon found that those patients needed me the most, and I've had a very fulfilling, if unorthodox, time of it. Let me warn you that Geoffrey, too, is a bit unorthodox, but you'll enjoy meeting him. Do you have contact information to pass on?"

The young psychotherapist withdrew a card from her pocket and handed it to Ruth. She glanced at it and saw that the woman was a member of BACP and did not use her husband's last name. That was to the better as far as Ruth was concerned, but she knew it was something that absolutely infuriated Martin. Louisa told her that he was extremely indignant when she wanted to remain "Miss Glasson" at school after they married. "It was not really worth the bother," Louisa laughed. "We have more important issues to address than my name."

Certainly, she was right. Ruth still wondered why a smart, attractive girl like Louisa would put up with her annoying nephew. But then "a pair of lovers are sufficient to themselves," according to Freud.

Ruth would resume her efforts to help Martin and Louisa sort out their relationship when she returned to Portwenn. For now she must be "a bit too London" and introduce Geoffrey Hardesty to his next brilliant author.

 **Continued . . . .**

 **Author's Note** : "BACP" is the British Association of Counselling and Psychotherapy.

 **With thanks to DBH14 for her Beta comments.**


	22. Chapter 22

" _ **Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon . . . . "**_

 **Chapter 22 – O Sapientia, O Wisdom**

Vlad was not at her disposal the next morning, and Ruth sorely missed him. One could easily become accustomed to the luxury of a driver in London. Leaving Sally with "The Times" and a breakfast tray, Ruth flagged a taxi and hurried to Saint Jeremy's Church. She could not be late for the Ceremony of Carols, a tradition she enjoyed with Daphne and Howard for countless years. It was here that she met Russell Fairhill, a member of the choir and a longtime friend of Howard's. His wife had died nearly a year earlier, and Daphne asked him to their flat for the midday meal. Nothing had come of that lunch, but the next year, Russell invited the three of them to his club after the service. Ruth was surprised when he rang her a few days later, having traced her to Broadmoor.

He mumbled and stumbled his way through an invitation to see a young Japanese pianist who would soon make her mark in the music world. Ruth was so flummoxed that she nattered on about her piano lessons as a child, wondering later why the man didn't simply write her off as another Broadmoor doolally. To his credit, he appeared at Ruth's flat and gallantly escorted her to Cadogan Hall the next Saturday evening. Russell laughed that he hadn't dated in over three decades, and Ruth hesitated telling him that she could nearly match his record.

Russell talked little of his wife or family until one Sunday afternoon, many months later. He and Ruth had watched an old film on the telly called "Where's Poppa," a hilarious tale of a dutiful son who could not keep up with his addled parents. "Poppa" was perpetually lost, often in an unclothed state, with his wife and son in pursuit. Russell remarked, somewhat sadly: "My daughters would never be that patient with me. They exhausted their well of compassion with my wife. We don't speak of it. Still too painful for them."

"How did she die, Russell," Ruth recalled stories patients told about their wives' deaths, including some who had actually murdered them.

"Cancer, breast cancer. It was horrible, terrible really. Now, that I've properly mourned my Beatrice, I'll say no more if you don't mind."

"Of course not." She took his hand and patted it gently. Human touch often soothes a troubled mind, her first mentor's advice seemed appropriate. To Russell her human touch elicited another reaction, and he pulled Ruth into their first kiss. Passion swiftly overcame them, and they soon moved to the bedroom. Kant's distinction between the appetite of sexual love and true love was not lost on Ruth. She worried that it was terribly foolish to allow their happily platonic relationship to change.

She needn't worry as Russell was clearly devoted to her. Room was found in her too busy life for a man, particularly one who made no demands on her, other than to be with him when she could. He courted Ruth not with flowers or jewelry, but with music, books on vague topics she might mention once, or allowing her a Saturday morning lie in whilst he ran errands. The shopkeepers whose names Ruth never knew told stories to Russell that he shared with her. What was to be done about the drycleaner's truant daughter? Did Ruth know that the chemist offered a 10 percent discount on Wednesday? Waitrose now had a larger stock of organic veg on offer, and Russell thought she might try the carrots if not the aubergine.

Arriving at Saint Jeremy's, Ruth brushed tears from her cheeks and gave the driver a tight smile along with the fare. How maudlin to cry. Daphne and Howard could not see her in this state. But then she should not have worn her wedding dress last night – it brought back too many memories.

The service was only beginning but the church was filled, quite an unusual sight in what was now a more secular London. An elderly usher shuffled Ruth to a small space in a pew behind those occupied by her friends. Daphne turned and beamed, nodding her head toward her son, daughter, their spouses, and her five grandchildren. She was in her glory, as Christmas and family meant so much to her. Daphne had been orphaned at age 2 when a German bomb crushed her parents' housing block. Raised firstly by her grandmother and then several unenthusiastic aunts and uncles, Ruth's friend was a bit of a mess when they met at Cambridge. Although Ruth's parents were very much alive, both were absent from her life – father with his work and mother with the mental anguish that began after Joan's birth.

Despite their childhoods, Ruth and Daphne became top range students, and they planned to attend medical school. It was very difficult for women to gain places, but the two students were exceptional, and the male faculty could not refuse their admission. Both had an active social life, aided by the very pretty Sally Hocking, but marriage was never discussed. Ruth was astonished when a few days before graduation, Daphne announced she was not taking her place at Saint Mary's but instead marrying Howard Breed. Ruth and Sally were bridesmaids at the late fall wedding, and the three friends grew apart. They reunited at their 10th college reunion and now moved easily through each other's lives. Both Sally and Daphne urged their friend to spend time in Portwenn following her sister's death, believing that it might help her properly mourn not only Joan but Russell as well. For their wise counsel, Ruth was grateful.

Fidgeting a bit in the crowded pew, Ruth tried to focus on the very young vicar, who was quite emotive in reading the familiar passages. She wondered if Martin and Louisa would consider coming to London for the service next Christmas. They would be married, and James 18 months of age. He might be able to manage the service, particularly as there was so much to engage him. Ruth looked about and saw many squirming babies and toddlers, some of whom had been released into the aisles to dance about as the choir sang. Louisa was so caught up in preparing for James Henry's first Christmas that Ruth wouldn't mention it to her until after the wedding. Maybe wait until summer, although they would need to arrange for a hotel unless Ruth's flat were available.

On second thought, Ruth couldn't imagine living in close quarters with the small family. Louisa and James, certainly, but Martin was another matter altogether, even if Louisa seemed perfectly content with him. But shouldn't she be happy only months from her wedding? No, Ruth reminded herself. An aunt could gently guide the two but should not be the busybody who pushed into their lives – not that Martin would allow it. They needed space, as the new psychiatrists prescribed, although Ruth felt they needed less space and more togetherness. Louisa often hinted at the same.

Ruth was roused from her thoughts by the loud bleating of what sounded like Joan's sheep. Oh goodness, a menagerie of animals was parading down the aisle to a shed like structure at the right altar. Howard was quite perturbed by the new vicar's live Nativity with farm animals who magically appeared in central London. The children squealed at the spectacle, and Ruth smiled - only wondering how Martin would react to the sight. He was not fond of Christmas nor any holiday really, but that had not always been the case.

Those first few Christmases with Martin had been quite fun. Father doted on his grandson, and the child was able to bring mother around to a semblance of happiness. After Martin's nanny had retrieved the child from the Kensington house at age three months, the place seemed more dolorous than ever. Ruth was busy with her work, father travelled to medical conferences as often as he could, leaving mother alone with the housekeeper. It was only when Christopher brought his son to the house that any life returned. He was not a garrulous or happy child, but his very quiet intelligence had a charm that captivated Ruth and her parents.

Those first six Christmases when Martin was left with them provided joyful memories. Mother brought out the old family ornaments and the housekeeper bedecked the tree under her direction. Even at age one year, Martin would quietly stand by, until Father hoisted him to the top of the tree where he placed the star mother and father bought on their honeymoon. Ruth often thought of her parents the day they found the star in Majorca. They must have been so in love, had hope for the future, and an understanding that they were amongst the lucky. Father having survived World War I and mother her formative years in West Yorkshire. The pearls Ruth wore last night were also purchased in Majorca and were amongst the jewelry Margaret purloined following mother's funeral.

She and Joan were too shattered to realise what their sister-in-law had done until it was too late. They agreed that some jewelry could remain with Margaret, but they insisted that mum's engagement ring, a locket from her parents, and the Majorcan pearls be returned. Joan asked if she might have the locket and ring, and Ruth kept the pearls. Louisa had scorned the engagement ring for good reason, but Ruth wondered if she might want the pearls. They were a bit old fashioned, but she could have a jeweler work them into a more contemporary necklace to wear at her wedding. Having made an error with the Christening gown, Ruth would assess her feelings toward the Ellingham family before she made the offer.

Between the overly excited children and terror stricken animals, the church had grown quite loud. The choir made a valiant effort to sing above the cacophony, and Ruth shuddered to think of Howard's tirade at the lunch they would soon share. Father was similar in his belief that children, like animals, should be seen and not heard. That rule was relaxed when Martin appeared in the house, but it was more likely the grandfather than the grandson who was noisy.

Father allowed Martin things forbidden to his own children. The year he presented Martin with a tricycle at Christmas, the child rode it with abandon through the lounge, dining room, and into father's office, all the while pressing the ringer attached to the front handlebar. Henry Ellingham chased gleefully after him calling out instructions that the child did not need. He carefully maneouvered away from furniture and was what grandfather termed "a natural born car man."

That was one of many insights the renowned surgeon had into his grandson. Martin did indeed become a bit of a car man, having learned to drive at the Ellingham summer home in Scotland. The narrow meandering roads became his race course, and he never lost his love of cars. Even in London, Martin paid ridiculous taxes and fees to keep a series of large luxury cars that he relished driving in the perilous urban traffic.

Ruth was amazed at his insistence on keeping his Lexus in Portwenn, although she could not part with her Mercedes and kept it garaged at the farm. Russell loved the car and having Ruth drive him about. "You are an economist's dream, my love. I'm a 'free rider' in a posh vehicle for which I paid nothing." Ruth would respond in psychiatric terms: "Some would say you are a narcissist who believes the world exists only for your enjoyment." "No, old girl, you exist only for my pleasure," Russell would leer enough to make Ruth roll her eyes. Then they would laugh and drive on.

Enough, enough, she had to get over the bloody man. Ruth looked about the church and saw others standing and singing with the choir a rousing "God Save the Queen." Oh bother the queen, Ruth had to sort out saving herself from the thoughts she could not escape. She would soldier on through the lunch with Daphne and Howard, then escape to Portwenn by the late afternoon train. There she would immerse herself in making a go of the fishing B and B. What better tribute to Joanie and what better way to forget Russell Fairhill. Or to remember the Ellingham holiday home in Scotland.

Continued . . . .


	23. Chapter 23

**" _Dance me on and on . . . "_**

 **Chapter 23 – Swotty and Spotty**

Spent from three days in London, Ruth was annoyed to be awakened by an unusual level of noise the next morning. Her let cottage was tucked far enough from the harbour that the dawn departure of the fishing fleet rarely disturbed her. This activity was more immediate, and Ruth moved the window covering aside to see a youngish man heaving contents from a Range Rover onto the lane. Shifting her eyes to the left, she spotted a thin woman with a baby strapped to her chest, gesturing toward the adjoining house and then the cartons.

Of course! The down-from-towners were arriving in Portwenn for Christmas, something Ruth hadn't experienced last summer whilst living at the farm. Barry and Al had begged off working until year's end – Al pressed into duty at Large's Restaurant and Barry helping his mother at the estate agent office. Reckoning she could make no progress at the farm without them, Ruth felt at sea. All for the better. She was exhausted and needed more sleep to recover from London. How had she ever managed it for those many years?

Wan winter sun outlined the windows when Ruth awoke hours later to a loud banging at her front door. Ordinarily, it would be Martin working the doorknocker so frantically, and she shrugged into her dressing gown prepared to meet her nephew. Opening the door, she blinked into the sun not recognizing the tall man standing in front of her. Not Martin, but dressed in a similar manner - unusual for one on holiday.

"Doctor Ellingham – Ruth - sorry to awaken you, but I've only now arrived. Remember me – David Estilow? You knew my mum. Me as well. I was at school with Ellingham – Martin – we played chess, right? I received a Christmas card from you." Here the man held out an envelope bearing her return address as if it were a summons to awaken her rather than an ordinary gesture of the season.

In London, Ruth would never admit a strange man to her flat. In fact, he would never be allowed beyond the heavily secured lobby with Mr. Aziz in attendance during the day and his cousin, Mr. Amiri, in the evening. But this was Portwenn, and Ruth ushered him in from the windy morning.

"David, whatever are you doing in Cornwall?" Ruth opened the curtains in an effort to make her home more hospitable.

"Well, you know, the usual thing. Meghan has taken our children to her parents in Williamsburg, and I'm only permitted to see them for the week beginning New Year's Day. Horrible arrangement, but what am I to do? She has filed for divorce, Ruth, and everything's in a shambles. Didn't Ellingham tell you?"

"No, Martin failed to mention it. Did he invite you for Christmas?" Ruth couldn't imagine her nephew inviting anyone for Christmas much less an old school mate.

"Not exactly. I saw him in London last Spring when he interviewed at Imperial. Seems the spanner got thrown into the works with him staying in Portwenn. I've not talked to him since the baby was born. Then, I received your card, had no place to go. Why not see the West Country, I thought. So here I am – bearing breakfast." To confirm his comment, David held out a stained sack from Wesse's Bakery and two paper cups. "Espresso, egg butties, and rock rolls – a Cornish specialty, I'm told."

Ruth had managed only two glasses of wine on last night's train trip home, and and her salivary glands reminded her that she hadn't eaten since yesterday's lunch. The food smelled delicious.

"Well then, David, do come in. We shall have a meal and sort out what's to be done with you." Ruth hoped he didn't expect to spend the holiday with her. She simply could not accommodate a guest.

As if reading her mind, David responded: "Only breakfast, Dr. Ellingham. I'm booked in at the Portwenn Hotel – view of the habour. Quite lovely. I only wanted to look in on you before I began exploring the countryside. Perhaps, you could tell Mart that I'm in town."

If it were anyone other than her nephew, Ruth would consider it odd that his old friend needed an emissary to announce his arrival. Martin wasn't known for his warm welcomes, but Ruth would urge David to call in at the surgery. With any luck, Louisa or Morwenna would greet him, and it would all be sorted. Ruth noticed that Louisa smoothed Martin's social side, whilst Morwenna did the same for his professional side. One man needed two women – actually three – since Ruth often found herself defending "the Doc" to villagers.

Russell once memorably said that the sign of a good dinner party was when guests stopped talking because the food was so satisfying. Ruth and David feel into this silence as they tucked into their appetizing meal. Reaching for the rock bun, Ruth finally spoke: "If you have no plans for Christmas Day, I'll be at Martin and Louisa's, and I'm certain they would be delighted to have you join us." There, Ruth, had done it. She couldn't bear the thought of someone moping about on that day in particular. Having been alone for Christmas several times, it was terribly sad to have no one with whom to celebrate. Louisa would certainly understand. She and Martin had been getting on well, now that the Christening was over and the wedding date set. It wouldn't kill Martin to expand himself beyond her, Louisa, and James Henry.

"Very kind of you, Ruth. I was hoping for an invitation but prepared for anything. Being married to Meghan, I've learned to roll with the punches as the Americans say. I can adapt to almost anything." Here he laughed in a way she suspected he thought sardonic but it came off as terribly pathetic. Oh, poor man, he was in a bad way. Ruth could almost feel his pain as she had with her troubled patients at Broadmoor. Perhaps, several days in Portwenn would serve him well.

"David, I'm not fit enough to walk the coastal path, but I can certainly show you some of the local spots of interest – Tintagel, the Eden Project, Truro Cathedral, that sort of thing. Consider me your guide whilst in Cornwall.

"Yes, I didn't think Old Swotty would have time for me. In London, he wouldn't even meet for lunch. We had a bad cup of coffee near Parliament, and he swanned off after only fifteen minutes."

"Old Swotty?" Ruth laughed. "Do you mean Martin?"

This time, David's chuckle was more genuine. "Yes, Swotty and Spotty. That's what we were called at Oxford. What a horror that was. Twenty years of age, and my spots wouldn't go away. I tried everything – Mart even came up with some concoctions, but the acne was impervious. So, I was 'Spotty,' and he was 'Swotty,' always swotting away at the books.

" I was doing my best to find a woman despite the spots, and Mart was hidden away in the labs doing his best to avoid humans, male or female. He'd rather cut off the tits of a 90 year old cadaver than feel those of a 19 year old girl."

Espresso in your mouth has two ways of exiting when laughter overcomes you – either through the mouth or the nose. Fortunately, for Ruth it was the former, and she seized a paper napkin to staunch the flow.

"Oh, David, really!" Ruth had to admonish her guest, but she agreed with his assessment of Martin. He had always been a bit of a prig, but Louisa was trying to change that.

"Sorry, Ruth. Bit too candid that. At any rate, **we were** swotty and spotty and our rooms were known as the neatest at Oxford thanks to Mart. It was dreadful when he went off to London to finish his training, and I had to slog through the last year without him. Of course, I met Meghan that year, so there was something to be said for privacy. Having a girl in your digs."

Ruth held up her hand: "David, I believe you've said enough about your Oxford experiences. Although it does put me in mind of the young people at my book signing this weekend. My two editors referred to them as nerds, but I found them quite engaging."

"That might be because you're a nerd as well, Ruth. Mart loved his Auntie Joan, but it was you he admired. He'd never tell you, but he only kept up with chess so that you'd come to his matches. Chris, the piss, and Mag, the hag, never attended anything. Christ, parents would fly in from Saudi Arabia and India for a cricket match, but those two couldn't drive a few miles to see Martin. Are they still around?"

"If you mean Martin's parents – although your names are more appropriate - last I knew they were living in a golf community in Portugal, the usual preserve of the British medical class in retirement." Ruth couldn't imagine anything worse.

"At least they retired. My mother took some sort of post flogging New Zealand wine so that she could be near my children in the States. She always was a good mum, now she's a fantastic grandmother and loves it." Here David produced his mobile and began scrolling through photos: "These are Catherine, Benet, Peter, and Hilda. Here they are with my mum at the New Zealand Embassy on Waitangi Day. She'll not let them forget they're Kiwis, too. But without you Brits signing the Treaty of Waitangi, we'd still be Maori."

"I'm surprised you didn't give them Maori names, Ruth teased, recalling his fondness for the language as a teenager.

"I tried, but they're named after colleges at Oxford – all Meghan's doing." David paused at a photo of a smiling woman surrounded by the children. "This is the woman who broke my heart, Dr. Ellingham. I don't know what to do."

Ruth gazed at the somewhat plump, blonde woman, her arms encircling the children. For whatever reason, Ruth's mind returned to a scene of Louisa clutching James after the Christening. Martin had scolded her for drinking too much Champagne, and she pulled James from his arms. Walking away, Martin did not see – but Ruth did - the defiant look Louisa shot at him. That scene reappeared too often in Ruth's mind, and each time she vowed to renew her efforts to keep the child's parents together.

Shaking the thought from her head, Ruth smiled at her unexpected guest: "Well, Spotty, shall we see if Old Swotty's about?"

Continued . . .

 **Author's Note:** A year ago, I published Chapter 10 of this story from the beautiful village of Port Isaac on the eve of my 70th birthday. The slow progress reflects my distraction as I grapple with retiring from a business I created and enjoy immensely. Projecting my anxiety onto the character of Ruth Ellingham as she contemplates retirement has been very helpful. What purposes are served by Fan Fiction!


	24. Chapter 24

" _ **Be my homeward dove . . . ."**_

 **Chapter 24 – Sugar and Spice**

Ruth began her venture with David Estilow by ringing Louisa's mobile, always the best way to reach her nephew's terribly busy fiancée. With no response, she tried the school, and spoke with Louisa's chirpy assistant. "You've returned, Doctor Ellingham. Miss Glasson will be so happy. She worried that you might miss the carol fest. Roger Fenn's having a run through with her and the children now, but I'll tell her you phoned."

"Louisa's not in, so I suppose we should try the surgery," Ruth told her waiting guest. She was reluctant to disturb her nephew, but there was nothing left to do. Fortunately, Morwenna answered his private phone – a bit breathlessly – but still someone.

"Hello, Miss Newcross, is Doctor Ellingham available," Ruth thought a bit of decorum might assure David that all was not lost with his old school mate.

"Oh, Doctor Ellingham! Is that you, then? Back from London? Do you have the book for Al? Christmas is two days on, and it's what I meant to give him." The girl sounded a bit anxious.

"Yes, of course. I'll bring it by the surgery, so that I may inscribe it properly. If Doctor Ellingham is in, we might pop over now." Ruth found that in Portwenn it was often necessary to return focus to the matter at hand.

"Oh, he's here, but - well - flu, you see. We have the villagers and visitors both. The Doc's beside himself. Banging on about hand washing, using tissues. You know how he is." Of course, Ruth knew how he was; that's why she rang Louisa first.

"Yes, I do, but his old friend is visiting from London, and I thought we might look in for a minute. Does he have any time free this morning?" Ruth could not deposit David at the surgery without some explanation.

"Doc has a friend?" The receptionist's tone changed from anxious to dubious.

"Well, he's my friend as well. Something of a family friend." Ruth looked to David who raised his eyebrows. "His mother and I are friends. We knew each other at Martin's school. Chess, that sort of thing." Ruth wasn't sure why she gave even this explanation.

"Chess, like you play with Barry and Al?" The girl's questions were straying further, so Ruth pressed her point.

"Morwenna, please tell Doctor Ellingham that we'll look be at the surgery in the next hour or so. Our friend can see James Henry and maybe have a word or two with the doctor. We shall see you shortly." Ruth rang off before the receptionist could respond. She had to get on with it.

"David, amuse yourself with this," Ruth handed him her book, "whilst I prepare myself for the day.

"Recidivism amongst prisoners! Catchy topic. Must be a best seller," David's smirk was a bit too much for Ruth.

"As a matter of fact, I've just returned from two book signings at Doyle's in London, and it was quite well received. 'The Times' gave it a favourable review, and the book's a top seller amongst prisoners and adolescent gamers. 'True Crime' is a popular genre this season. Do enjoy it." Ruth turned to the stairs as David opened her book.

When she re-appeared, her guest was sat at the table, seemingly engrossed in his reading. "I'd be happy to sign that copy for you, David. I could send one for Veronica, as well. Will she be in Williamsburg with your family?"

"That's very kind of you Ruth. Mum would enjoy it. Well, possibly not the subject matter, but knowing that you wrote it. She's quite fond of you." David carefully marked his place in the book and stood. "We're off to see Old Swotty, then?"

Reaching for her coat, Ruth couldn't resist ribbing him: "Yes, 'Spotty.' And a bit of Portwenn too."

Outside, David removed his spectacles and replaced them with sunglasses against the wind. He also tucked Ruth's hand into his arm, a gallant gesture she appreciated on this blustery morning.

As they walked toward the surgery, villagers greeted Ruth and cast curious looks at her companion. He did cut a dashing figure with his height, smart city clothing, and dark hair caught by the breeze. As they reached the Platt, Ruth tried to avoid Bert Large, but his bulky body stopped their progress.

"Welcome back, Ruth. You're a sight for sore eyes. Al thought you might not return for Christmas, but I said: 'Son, she'll be here. London's nice and all, but there's nothing like Portwenn at Christmas.'" Before Ruth could respond, Bert continued: "Who's this with you then? Another shrink?"

This was the last thing Ruth wanted, but she had to introduce the two men: "Bert Large, I would like you to meet David Estilow. David is from London and down for a few days." Ruth feared offering more - anything she said would only fuel the village gossip mill.

"I'll say the same to you, then." Bert was quite jovial with the visitor. "Welcome to Portwenn. Stop by Large's Restaurant on Christmas Eve. We're offering traditional fare with a bit of a twist. Nothing like it in London, my boy." Ruth was relieved when Bert waddled off toward the fish market knowing that he could have delayed them for many more minutes.

They trudged on, soon reaching the narrow alleyway leading to the surgery's kitchen door. Ruth tapped and entered as was her habit. The odour that greeted them was like nothing she had ever smelled in the surgery. An aromatic combination of butter, sugar, and spice permeated the flour dusted room. In the midst of it all Magdalena was stooped over the table, punching raisins into a mound of dough, and James Henry was splayed on a brightly colored rug, arms and legs flailing at the mobile dangling above. Ruth wondered if Martin had seen this spectacle.

"Oh, James look. Your Auntie Ruth is back from London." The child minder wiped her hands on a tea towel before picking up the baby and bringing him to Ruth. "We're baking Cornish fairings for the school. Miss Glasson forgot to order them, and Wesse's Bakery is too busy with the emmets. I'm making the hevva cakes now. Let me switch on the kettle for you and your gentleman. Have a fairing with tea, won't you?" Here the woman gestured proudly toward racks of small, ginger scented cakes that did look quite appetizing.

"Magdalena, David is actually a friend of Martin's – Doctor Ellingham. He just wanted to look in for a minute and say hello. I'm certain we'll organise dinner for tonight."

"No dinner. Miss Glasson's carols are today. I'm taking James Henry to the school at three and then helping with the party. I've so much to do." Magdalena handed Martin's child to his old friend, and the two were so startled that they simply smiled at each other. Ruth lay down her tote and removed her coat, prepared to take the baby from David.

"Not necessary, Ruth. I love the wee ones. That's why we had four. I'll just have a chat with him. Tell him all about his old Dad." The tall man retreated to a nearby chair where he bounced a delighted James Henry on his knees.

With nothing to do, Ruth asked Magdalena if she needed help. Directions were given, and Ruth busied herself as a baker's assistant, measuring grams of flour, caster sugar, and carefully separating eggs yolks. She hadn't baked since Russell died, and she found it a bit satisfying. Perhaps, she'd search out her old Mary Berry cookery book and have another go at it. She had never quite mastered the Victoria sponge cake.

Engrossed in their activities, the four were startled when Martin opened the kitchen door and bellowed: "What in blazes is going on? This place wreaks of empty calories, artery clogging butter, and tantrum inducing sugar. Bin everything immediately!"

"Bloody, hell! The same Old Swotty. Couldn't have a decent pizza, pint, or bonk without a scolding. James Henry, don't pay any attention to your old dad. We didn't at school - except for pushing us through calculus."

Finally, Martin turned toward his old schoolmate: "Estilow, what are you doing here?"

"Holding your sprog it seems. Nothing I ever dreamed possible. But I'd say you did a proper job of it. Your _**tamaiti**_ is handsome, but he does need a fresh _**kope.**_ "

Without missing a beat, Martin reached for James: "My ** _baby_** is handsome and if he needs a fresh _**nappy**_ , I'll be the one to change it. Seems the child minder is neglecting her duties, once again."

"No, Doctor Ellinghman." Magdalena protested. "Miss Glasson said to make the cakes. James Henry is fine. His nappy is fine."

Ruth was a bit put off by Martin's habit of holding the baby aloft to sniff his nappy, and she again shuddered upon seeing it. "You're right, Magdalena. Nappy's fine. Seems Estilow's engaging in his annoying habit of using a language no one understands outside his godforsaken homeland. What a prat he is, James Henry." Martin lowered the child to his arm and cuddled him whilst switching on the espresso machine.

"Martin, is that all you can say? David's come from London for holiday, and you might at least say hello." Ruth so wished Louisa were here to manage Martin's ill temper, but she would persevere.

"Hello, Estilow. Have you finalized your divorce? Is your mother still selling that New Zealand plonk? Have you tricked the UK into any bad trade treaties? You can't stay here. We simply have no room." Martin's humour was foul today, and Ruth was about to intervene when David spoke:

"Fortunately, my divorce is not final, and I'm still trying to hold the marriage together. I'm resigning from Foreign Affairs and Trade and taking a post with the World Bank in Washington. I'll put things right with Meghan even if it means giving up a career I love. It has pulled my guts out to go through this ordeal, and I so appreciate your sympathy, Ellingham.

"My mother served as New Zealand's ambassador to nine countries, including the Court of Saint James. In her retirement she represents wine distributors in the States so that she might be near her grandchildren. A benefit I understand your child does not enjoy.

"If anything, New Zealand has helped the UK negotiate trade treaties with China and Japan that have enriched your country tremendously. If you cared to read anything other than 'The Times' and the other Tory rags, you might know that.

"And I wouldn't ask a bed from you if I were Joseph seeking a place for Mary to deliver Jesus, himself. I cannot see my children for another week and thought I might find a friendly face in West Cornwall. Your aunt has provided that along with the few villagers I encountered last night and this morning. As always, you are the exception. That said, you look great, you old _**poriro.**_ Want to have dinner tonight after Louisa's carol fest at the school?"

Ruth and Magdalena looked at David Estilow with mouths agape. It was easy to understand why he was a diplomat. She had never seen anyone counter her grumpy nephew as effectively as his old school mate. The two really were friends and knew how to bring out the best and worst in each other.

Unfazed, Martin responded: "Dinner would be nice. I'll ask Miss Glasson and let you know. Leave your card with the receptionist. And don't call me a bastard in your ridiculous Maori language or otherwise!"

Martin handed James back to his old friend, picked up his tiny cup of espresso and made to leave the kitchen. Before departing, he muttered to no one in particular: "These cakes are appalling. Fruit would do much better." Seconds later they heard a muffled thud followed by a pained yelp from Martin. Ruth suspected he had bumped his head again at the consulting room's low doorway. The three fell into laughter, and David Estilow was the first to speak: "Penance! When Old Swotty's a prick, something bad happens. I'm not sure he'll ever learn his lesson. Say, Mags, what are the best shops for meat and veg? I'll make dinner whilst you're at the school today. Maybe even serve the New Zealand plonk Ellingham deplores."

The two women were speechless as this kiwi force of nature began to overtake their lives. What would Louisa ever think of him? Especially if he and Martin continued exchanging insults. Ruth wasn't certain if she was looking forward more to the carol fest or the dinner that would follow. Either way, she was happy to be back in the village. Bert Large might be right about Christmas in Portwenn - especially with Martin's old friend in attendance.

Continued. . . .


	25. Chapter 25

" **Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon . . ."**

 **Chapter 25 – The Trinlomalee Tickle**

Ruth's tour de force as baker assistant to Magdalena combined with her fatigue from London were finally a bit too much, and she reluctantly left David Estilow and the child minder to box cakes for delivery to the school. A long nap left her refreshed, but now she must hasten to the carol fest. As she hurried to Fore Street, Ruth spotted David Estilow striding toward her from the surgery.

"Ruth, hold on. Are you off for the school," he called. She stopped, and the tall man reached her quickly.

"I thought you were to prepare dinner at the surgery. Did Martin put you out," Ruth teased.

"As a matter of fact he did. I have a nice lamb stew simmering, but Ellingham informed me he doesn't eat meat and prefers that it not be served in his home. He's bought a fish. Of course, we can have the stew. It will pair well with a few bottles of New Zealand's finest I found at the pub. We'll have a good time of it." Nothing seemed to bother David, and he graciously took Ruth's arm to guide her to Portwenn Primary.

There they found some of the few remaining seats in the assembly room. Parents and other villagers were joined by visiting families who learned of the gathering from signs Kenny Trewick posted about Portwenn. He assured Ruth that Louisa approved, down to the "Donation Appreciated" appeal. "We gotta make a bob or two off the Londoners," Kenny whispered to Ruth as he was sat next to her. Ruth nodded her head at another entrepreneurial villager and turned her attention to the stage. Louisa soon began her welcoming remarks, looking particularly pretty in a blue and white stripey skirt with a red top floating above it.

"That's Martin's fiancée," she whispered helpfully to David.

"Crikey, what a beauty. I expected a withered spinster with spectacles and thick ankles. What does she see in Ellingham?"

"David, really," Ruth muttered her standard objection. But she, like Joan, wondered how their dour nephew captured the heart of this bright, vivacious woman.

With Louisa's greeting ended, group after group of children sang the familiar carols Ruth recalled from her own childhood. A few more recent songs were presented, and the singers acquitted themselves well under the direction of Roger Fenn.

"That man deserves a knighthood," David whispered to her. "Herding those children through the songs and mostly on key. I'm afraid schools in the States don't manage as well. The last programme at my children's school turned into quite a hash."

David may have spoken a bit too soon. As the last carol ended, Louisa rushed excitedly to the stage and announced that a surprise visitor was nearing the school. With that, the lights dimmed and children squealed in anticipation. A minute later Roger Fenn returned to the piano and played a rousing "I'm A Little Christmas Cracker" to introduce a dubiously disguised Stu MacKenzie as Father Christmas. As the lights rose, the progeny of villagers and tourists alike rushed toward the legendary figure who pressed sweets into their eager hands.

It reminded Ruth of the scene in the London church, but thankfully without animals adding to the chaos. "Now, David, do you think we are terribly prim and proper in Portwenn?" she had to speak loudly to be heard above the din.

With the carol fest over, the spectators made their way to long tables where the fairings and hevva cakes baked by Magdalena had been supplemented by many offerings from parents. Ruth noticed that Kenny had strategically placed donation tins on each table. She also noticed that the villagers studiously ignored them whilst the tourists filled them with pound notes. Ruth turned to congratulate Kenny for his clever idea, but he had cornered Louisa and was proudly pointing toward the overflowing containers.

"Come, David, let's see if we can get Louisa out of here a bit early," Ruth took his hand to lead him toward the head of school, but she was too taken up by her duties to break away. Ruth and David stood nearby, and more villagers than usual wanted a word with her. Of course, they were curious about the stranger, so she simply introduced him as "a friend from London." No reason to mention Martin. It would only cause more gossip - something both she and her nephew abhorred.

As the crowd thinned, Louisa came over to David and Ruth. "You must be Martin's friend, David. You and Ruth were angels to help Magdalena today. I completely forgot about ordering the cakes – too much going on, I'm afraid. But I appreciate it. I understand we're to have dinner tonight. This will be a first. Other than Joan and Ruth, we've never had anyone at the surgery – I mean they come to the surgery all the time – only not for a meal. Sorry, am I babbling? It's just end of term. . . . whoosh." Here, Louisa waved her hand above her head. "You know how busy it is."

"Yes, we do, dear. Now let's get you home. David has a marvelous lamb stew on the heat and choice New Zealand wine. We are going to have a very pleasant evening."

The three made their way merrily downhill from the school and then uphill to the surgery. A few times either David or Louisa would sing a snippet or two from a carol, and Ruth was pleased they were getting on. It did bode well for their dinner.

Entering the surgery kitchen, they found Martin enveloped in an apron, feeding cereal to James. "We've only two more bottles of expressed milk, Louisa. You should try to nurse him for the next few days. I don't want James dependent on formula if you can manage some time with him."

Ruth saw Louisa's shoulders sag and heard her exhalation of breath before turning to James: "How's my darling boy? Come to Mummy. Daddy thinks I should nurse you, so we'll do just that. If you'll excuse me, I'll bring James upstairs for a feed and bed. Please don't wait for dinner." With her coat still on, Louisa took their son from Martin and walked up the stairs.

"Bit harsh, Ellingham. The woman's been working for hours and you scold her before saying 'hello.' You're a lucky duck, and you should be careful how you treat her." Ruth felt she need not echo David's sentiments. Why couldn't Martin have the slightest bit of social grace? Well, she'd smooth it over.

"Martin, what are you preparing? It smells absolutely delicious. May I do anything?"

Her nephew never accepted help, but she hoped to mollify his annoyance with Louisa. "We missed you at the programme. Magdalena said she offered to mind James, but you wouldn't hear of it. The night turned into a bit of a fundraiser for the school. The Londoners were very generous and Magdalena's fairings and cakes disappeared quickly."

"The Londoners are nothing more than a bother," Martin harrumphed. "They should pay for inflicting their diseases on an already vulnerable population which refuses to engage in the most basic of hygiene habits . . ."

"Oh for God's sake, Ellingham, give it a rest. We are days from Christmas and you make Ebenezer Scrooge seem like Father Christmas. Is there nothing that makes you happy?"

Now, David had done it, Ruth feared.

"Martin closed the refrigerator door and placed a bowl of salad on the table before saying: "Watching babies and old people shiver with fever caused by a flu that could be easily prevented if the imbeciles in this village would ever – I mean ever – follow my directions. Quite simple: drink water, rest, take a paracetamol when needed. Repeat.

"No, they'd rather argue that flu must be treated with an antibiotic and a strong opioid to deal with a few minor aches and pains. Why follow a proven regimen when a pharmaceutical cure can knock them into oblivion!"

Now David intervened: "Bad day, then Swotty. Let me open the wine and see who wants the lamb stew. How about you, Ruth? Stew or fish? Merlot or Pinot Gris? I'm at your service."

The broiled fish Martin was sliding onto a long, narrow plate had less appeal than the aromatic stew that David stirred. "Well, for a change, I'll have the stew and a glass of the red. Let's give Louisa a few more minutes to join us. Their London guest poured two glasses of wine and held out the bottle to Martin: "Ellingham?"

"No. And don't give any of that to Louisa," he commanded. "She's nursing."

"Oh, Martin, she can have a glass of wine and dump her milk. You said a few bottles remain, and the wine will be out of her system by tomorrow. It's the end of term. Her programme was a success. Allow her to relax a bit." Ruth found herself advocating for Louisa more than she should. But she liked the woman and thought she was perfect for Martin. And then there was the dear baby as well.

"One glass only, Swotty. What do you say?" Even David was championing Louisa.

"Stop calling me Swotty. It's immature and unbecoming." Martin thundered.

"Oh, I don't know. It's kind of sweet isn't it?" Louisa had re-appeared in the room and stood on her toes to kiss Martin's cheek. Ruffling his hair, she laughed: "I'm starving, Swotty. May I have both the lamb stew and the fish?"

Martin blushed deeply but handed her a plate with a large portion of fish. David jumped to the cooker and filled bowls with stew for Louisa, Ruth and himself. "Last chance, Ellingham. Remember when we learned how to make it? Still quite good."

"No, thank you." Martin muttered. "There's nothing to recall."

The four were sat at the table, David pouring wine and passing the salad.

"Oh, goodness, David. The stew is absolutely delicious. Is this something you learned from Veronica?" Ruth was impressed.

"No," he laughed. "Mum's idea of cooking is fish fingers and frozen crisps. Didn't Ellingham tell you about being forced into scullery duty at Tonbridge?"

"That's really not necessary," Martin looked up from his fish. "That was long ago."

"Oh, Martin, I would love to hear. I've often wondered how you learned to cook so well," Louisa looked flirtatiously at him over her glass. Clearly, the wine had restored her good humour.

Making a concession to Louisa, Martin took a sip of water and began: "It was in the autumn term – our last year at Tonbridge. The other boys played pranks constantly on the chess team, and we soon grew tired of it. So Estilow came up with the idea that we would do a haka at the Saturday rubgy match – I guess to embarrass the team. They were the biggest bullies and our nemesis."

"What's a haka?" Ruth and Louisa asked almost simultaneously. David Estilow picked up the story.

"It's a fierce Maori war dance intended to intimidate the enemy. Warriors paint their bodies, chant loud epithets, puff their checks, and stick out their tongues. In other words, they act like they're crazy, and no one wants to fight with crazy people. You never know what they're capable of."

"At any rate," Martin continued, "Seven or eight of us made these skirts from grain bags we found at the horse barn and fashioned wreaths from laurel. On the given Saturday, we met in a copse of trees behind the rugby pitch, so no one would see us. We stripped to our pants, and Arbuthnot decorated our faces and chests with body paint from Boots. Kumar tied the skirts around us and secured the wreaths to our heads. We looked ridiculous. I didn't want to do it, but Estilow insisted."

"Insisted, Ellingham? You were so damn tired of having your head stuffed in the toilet, you would have done anything for revenge. I taught the lads the basic haka steps, so we were as ready as we ever would be. When we rushed onto the field, screaming like pike stuck pigs, everyone was shocked. We were there maybe five minutes, but people were so gobsmacked they just stared at us whilst we did this wild, stomping dance. At the end I pulled off my skirt and threw it at the ruggers from the opposing team. Then the others did the same. There we were on the playing field, in white pants, paint dripping from our sweaty bodies. What else to do but run off the field screaming.

"When we reached our sleeping hall, we were intercepted by the house mother who told us to clean ourselves and immediately report to the head of school. We hadn't considered what might happen, but it finally occurred to us that we could be tossed out.

"By the time we got to the head master's office, the match was over and our school had beaten its major rival for the first time in 22 years. Apparently, our haka had so rattled the other ruggers that they played miserably, and Tonbridge won. Despite that, we were consigned to a month of work in the scullery for embarrassing the school.

"The so called chef was this old Royal Navy Petty Officer by the name of Percival Paradis. He had cooked on ships and had lurid stories about ports of call from Singapore to Hong Kong and Gibraltar to the Falklands. He hated his name, and was known to everyone as 'Pots.' I'm not sure that was better, but we liked calling him Pots. We were mostly there to do the washing up and dump the bins, but he offered to teach us to cook. That's how I learned to make this lamb stew and Ellingham learned to boil fish. Although I don't recall much fish at Tonbridge."

"Actually, we did have fish each Friday." Martin interrupted. "It was always served with what Pots called BITS – beans in tomato sauce. On Saturday, he's splash out and make Frog in A Bog – that's toad in a hole. Or sometimes Rat in a Coffin – his version of a pasty. He really was quite a good cook." Ruth noticed that Martin emptied his water glass and added a small amount of the Pinot Gris to it.

"Oh, Martin and David, the haka story is hilarious. I just can't imagine. . . . " Louisa snuggled against Martin's arm, and he didn't flinch as he usually did when she was affectionate before others.

David brought the pot of stew to the table and asked: "More, anyone?" Louisa and Ruth nodded and Martin added: "Let me have a taste of it. I want to see if it is as good as what I make."

The three resumed eating but David leaned back in his chair, ready for more stories: "But the best thing about old Pots is that he taught us all about sex."

"Hold on, Estilow, not with Louisa and Ruth," Martin objected.

"Well, my dear, Louisa and I are not novices at the subject, and I find David's stories fascinating." Ruth wouldn't miss this for the world.

"Yes, indeed. Pots was a bit of a rogue and claimed he had 'satisfied ladies around the globe.' He liked to talk about his escapades, and we liked to hear about them. Ellingham, remember the 'Trinlomalee Tickle?'"

Martin held up his hands: "That's enough David. You're drinking too much and making Ruth and Louisa uncomfortable. Let's change the subject. Now."

"Oh not now," Louisa laughed. "We're getting to the good bits."

With Louisa's encouragement, David returned to the story: "It seems a plantation owner's wife taught him this bit when Pots was stationed at the Trinlomalee Naval Station in Sri Lanka. Remember, Swotty? He and Fitzy Arubuthnot had that big argument about it. The move was straight out of Burton's edition of the 'Kama Soutra,' and Fitzy's ancient relative had edited the book. Pots assured us we could have any woman we wanted if we could only master the Trinlomalee Tickle. Now that was music to the ears of nerds like us who were forced to partner with the pudgy girls at dance class."

Perhaps it was her second glass of wine. Or maybe the satisfying lamb stew. The late hour. The excitement of the holiday. Or simple relief that half term was here and that she would soon marry the man she loved. Ruth would never know Louisa's motivation for what happened next. But she silently applauded her nephew's fiancée who held her glass aloft and spoke this toast: "To the Trinlomalee Tickle. I didn't know it had a name, but it certainly got Martin Ellingham the woman he wanted. Cheers to Pots and my darling Swotty."

Continued . . . .


	26. Chapter 26

" _ **Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in . . ."**_

 **Chapter 26 – A Right Royal Pisser**

The following morning, Ruth awoke only too aware of the amount of wine she drank last night. She had clung to David Estilow as he walked her home and saw her safely into the cottage. Had she really agreed to visit Tintagel with him today? She wasn't certain if she could leave her bed much less the village, but she would soldier on. After a terrifying visit to the bathroom where she caught sight of her eyes and hair, Ruth made her way to the kitchen for orange juice. That and a warm bath should prepare her for the day. And coffee, perhaps espresso.

A restorative soak did help, followed by two Solpadeine tablets, more juice and coffee. Creaky and slow, but certainly feeling more human. Now it was on to 11 o'clock and David should appear soon. She only hoped he recovered better than she did. Ruth had a quick look from her bedroom window and spotted the hapless Joe Penhale in what appeared to be deep discussion with Al Large and Barry Johnson. The three shook hands, and the PC walked to the end of the short lane. The other two men took positions opposite each other but closer to her home. Whatever were they up to? Shouldn't they be busy with the tourists?

What happened next was quite unsettling. Ruth saw David Estilow walking toward her cottage, looking quite chipper. As he passed Penhale, the PC lifted two fingers to his eyes and then pointed to Barry and Al. When David neared the lads, they moved together, blocking him as their pirate ancestors once did to ships off the Cornish coast. Barry and Al adopted the threatening posture she recalled from prisoners on the attack at Broadmoor. Ruth was so riveted by the scene unfolding that she couldn't imagine what to do. Surely Al and Barry had confused the Londoner with someone else. Then Al pressed his palm into David's chest and seemed to be shouting at him. She could not hear him, but he appeared quite angry and red faced. Barry said nothing but stared menacingly at their prey.

Oh dear, she really must intervene. Ruth rushed down the stairs and flung open the front door. As she was about to shout, David withdrew a wallet from his pocket, opened it and handed something to Al and Barry. Surely they weren't demanding money from him! If so, wouldn't the PC stop them - even if he were inept?

What David handed to the young men was not money but small white squares which they held to the sunlight. A loud laugh drew Ruth's attention back to David who lifted his hands, shrugged, and then gestured first toward Ruth's cottage and then in the direction of the surgery. She still couldn't hear what was being said, but Al and Barry relaxed their stance. Amidst the confusion, Joe Penhale appeared, baton at his side and a lost look on his face. David extended his hand to the PC, throwing him off guard. Unsure what to do, Penhale took the offered hand and bobbed his head. The four then seemed to have a more convivial conversation with many gestures and laughter. Ruth retreated behind her door - whatever was occurring did not seem to require her involvement.

Minutes later, David Estilow found her standing at the door, looking a bit confused. "How are you this morning Ruth? Need the hair of the dog before Tintagel?"

"Never mind that, I'm fine. But what was that about in the lane?" She pointed toward the three villagers ambling toward the quay.

"It would seem I've been put on notice by the Ruth Ellingham Protective Society that my every action is being watched in Portwenn. Word has gotten about that I'm some sort of fancy London gigolo who followed you here, intent on swindling you out of the farm and your book royalties. Your introducing me as a 'friend' and taking my arm as any gentlemen would offer has been interpreted as my sinister plot to push over an old lady.

"I told the lads otherwise and gave them my card showing I am, in fact, a New Zealand Foreign Affairs Officer rather than a lecher. I did mention that I was at school with Ellingham, and their response was something along the lines of: 'I bet the Doc was a right royal pisser.' When I agreed, they knew I was one of them. I've been invited round to the pub tonight for a pint, and you're to come as well. You should feel very cared for in Portwenn, Ruth."

What she felt instead was embarrassed, actually more affronted. How dare Barry and Al, much less Penhale, imagine some sort of unsavoury relationship between her and David! She was reminded of Christopher's accusation of tawdry behaviour with the boys when she simply attended their chess matches. Her stomach lurched, and not solely from the indulgences of the previous night. She felt sick in body and heart that the villagers would have such a low opinion of her.

Suddenly, her plan to live in Portwenn was shattered. If they questioned her morality and judgement over a simple visit from Martin's school mate, what did the future bode for her? Ruth withdrew into the cottage, somewhat troubled by her new understanding of Portwenn. Previous visits had been buffered by her sister's good standing in the small community. Everyone liked Joannie, and – by extension – Ruth. Now that Joan was gone, that grace seemed to have vanished. She must return to the anonymity of London, despite the sway held by Martin's family. She would leave quickly and get on with it. No need for Tintagel; she had telephone calls to make.

"David, do come in for a moment, but I'm terribly afraid I'm not able to go about with you today. You're right. I did overindulge last night and am feeling quite unwell. But You should go on to Tintagel. I visited the place recently, and it's lovely. You'll become quite steeped in literature, seeing the haunts of Thomas Hardy, John Fowles and Conan Doyle. One can easily understand why they were so inspired by the moor."

"Are you certain, Ruth? Perhaps if we had a coffee and breakfast, you'd feel steadier. Shall I make some eggs and toast? Pots, the school cook, gave us the secret of fluffy scrambled eggs. Or perhaps an omelette. What do you say?"

"Thank you, my dear, but the thought of food, even blessed by Pots, is not very appetizing at the moment. You go on to Tintagel. Perhaps Louisa and James could join you. Martin will be busy at the surgery, but they might enjoy a day out."

"Actually, I just saw Louisa at the Christmas market on the Platt. She was gathering greenery and bits and bobs to decorate the surgery. James and Magdalena were with her, and they're off next to find a tree. Maybe I could help them with the decorating if you're not up for the trip. Meghan is the English scholar in the family – in fact that's how I stumbled upon her. In Tintagel you see."

"My goodness, David, I had no idea. I thought Martin said you two met at Oxford."

"Well we were there at the same time but different colleges, so our paths hadn't crossed. In our second year, some friends and I decided to ramble about Cornwall following the Michaelmas term. Funny, we asked Ellingham along, but he professed a deep hatred for the West Country. Said he spent a few summers there at his aunt's farm, and the people were idiots and inbreeds. You can imagine my surprise when he left London to be a GP in the very area he despised. Something must have happened to make him so dislike Portwenn. But he seems well settled now. Of course, with Louisa, who wouldn't be happy? Ellingham really fell into it – brains and beauty. If our Oxford mates saw Old Swotty now, they'd be amazed.

"You see, our trip to Cornwall was a bit of a dare. Six of us formed a betting pool to find a women foolish enough to have sex with one lucky mate. It was on the honour system, but it's how I won twenty quid and - as it turned out - a wife."

"David, I'm not certain I want to hear about your exploits at uni. I'm still getting over the Trinlomalee Tickle." Ruth had to laugh despite her somber mood. David was quite entertaining.

"No, Ruth, I promise not to embarrass you. We had a good time of it, rambling about, sleeping rough – something most of us sissy boys had never done. We'd stop at a pub for an occasional wash, but mostly we relied on rain for two weeks.

"One afternoon, we happened upon a field near Tintagel and spied a group of women standing in a circle, arms raised in the air, chanting gibberish. We had seen a bit of everything at Oxford, and Teddy Banks guessed they were performing a Druid ritual or some such nonsense. We didn't care what it was. They were the cleanest girls we had seen since leaving Oxford and the perfect opportunity. Teddy was reading history, so he briefed us on the Druids and Bards, although they had little to do with Camelot or the Arthurian legends of Tintagel. Banks was also the most daring, so we gave him the bottle of wine bought for the occasion and sent him as envoy to the chanters.

"We waited patiently until their ceremony ended, and they fell to the field laughing. Banks swaggered over to them, casually swinging the bottle of wine at his side, and spoke the words I still remember: 'Ladies, the gods may not have heard your prayers, but our prayers have been answered finding such lovely lasses on our journey of discovery. May I offer you some wine – not of the gods but of mere man.'"

Ruth brought folded hands to her mouth, barely able to contain the laugh that filled her throat: "Oh David, he didn't. Was there ever a worse pick up line in the world? What did those poor girls do?"

"Well, as you can imagine, they roared with laughter. If they weren't already on the ground, they would have collapsed at the humour and pathos the six of us presented. But they got into the spirit of things and commanded Teddy open the wine. None of us had thought to bring a corkscrew, so there we stood, our plan stymied. Fortunately, a pretty blonde girl removed her shoe and grabbed the wine from Banks. She tucked the bottle into the shoe as far as it would go and dropped it to the ground. We gasped at the thought of a 5 pound bottle of wine being wasted along with our chance to woo the women.

"Miraculously, the cork popped from the bottle on impact, but the vessel remained intact. 'Old UVA fraternity trick,' the blonde explained. 'I'm Meghan O'Neill from the States. Who are you dudes?' We were so overcome by the ingenious wine de-canting, that our physics addled brains took a bit to recover. Teddy responded first. 'We're from the Oxford University Scientific Society and having a ramble about the desolation that is Cornwall.' His superior tone begged for a put down, and we got it."

"'Oxford men, are you?' The same Meghan spoke up. 'Well we were hoping for someone of a higher caliber to deflower the lot of us, but I guess you'll do. Who wants to go first?'

"Poor Wendell Comfreys was more socially constipated than Ellingham, and he rushed forward: 'I'll happily go first – but do I get to choose my lab partner or will one be assigned to me?'"

"Oh, David, really! Lab partner, indeed!" Ruth was gasping for breath through her laughter.

"As it turned out, I was the only one who got a willing lab partner in Meghan O'Neill, so I won the bet. Each time one of us married, this story is told during the toasts. It is almost legendary. If only Ellingham had been with us, I could tell the tale at his reception. Now that would be fun!"

Suddenly David's mood changed, and he bowed his head: "God I miss her, Ruth. Meghan. I miss her and my kids, they're great children. What am I going to do Ruth? You're a shrink what can I do?"

For the next while, David recited the eleven year history of his marriage to Meghan. He admitted too much fault, Ruth thought, and she urged him address his wife's failings as well. Ruth soon understood exactly what happened to their marriage. Two people who loved each other but literally could not sort out a way to live together. Meghan did not want to raise their children in the vagabond ways of their father, and David saw nothing wrong with his attending seven schools in twelve years or living in nine countries by the time he was 18 years of age.

Ruth counselled David more within the parameters of common sense than psychiatry. His leaving the Foreign Affairs Office for the posting in Washington would solve the problem of being in the same continent, but more was needed.

"David, I know an extraordinary young therapist in London who has found great success with couples in difficult relationships. Promise me you'll see her when you return to the city. She can work with you individually, and perhaps refer you to a colleague in Washington. I see no other way to bring you back to Meghan. Love may conquer all, but it sometimes needs a bit of help."

"You're right, Ruth. I thought it could wait until we were together, but I'll be in London a few more months and should see someone. To be clear, she isn't the same therapist you referred to Martin and Louisa?"

Ruth was puzzled by his comment. "What do you mean, David?"

"Well, I assume they're in counselling. The way they snipe at each other. Didn't you notice last night? He criticizes her constantly, and she retaliates with those snide remarks about his stuffiness, rudeness, how clueless he is. They may be in love, but they don't seem to like each other, if that makes sense. It's really none of my business – never make assumptions, right?"

"As a matter of fact, David, they're not in counselling but I wish they were. Their lives seem to center around James rather than each other. I know they're busy and have a baby, but still, it would be nice to see a bit of affection, particularly from Martin. I cringe each time Louisa even touches his arm and he shrinks from her. I understand his reticence, but I wish he would be – oh I don't know – kinder to Louisa.

"Look, your story revived me." Ruth felt useful once more. "Let's get on with it. We may not see weather this fine for a few days, and you should be re-acquainted properly with Tintagel. Have a think while you're there. Maybe write a letter to Meghan recalling your initial meeting and time together. That could help." This was an exercise Ruth had suggested to her nephew when he doubted Louisa would ever marry him. He never said if he wrote the letter, but Louisa recently mentioned that Martin expressed himself better in writing than in conversation.

"Thank you, Ruth." David took her hand to help her from the chair. "I came here on a lark and found you. Does Ellingham know how bloody lucky he is to have you?"

Louisa had said the same thing to Ruth about herself and James Henry. Her returning to London would not help them, but Ruth wondered if remaining in Portwenn might help them either.

To be continued. . . .


	27. Chapter 27

" _ **Dance Me On and On. . . . "**_

 _ **Previously in "Dance Me to the End of Love" – Martin's schoolmate, David Estilow, unexpectedly arrives in Portwenn a few days before Christmas, but Martin has no time for him. Instead, the visitor mooches about with Louisa and Ruth, who provides advice on David's marital problems. Ruth's attention to David is mis-interpreted by village gossips, and she wonders if she can remain in Portwenn.**_

 **Chapter 27 – As Normal As Normal Can Be**

Village gossips be damned, Ruth pointedly took David Estilow's arm as she navigated the stairs from her cottage to Dolphin Lane. Rounding the corner to where her new Ford occupied much less space than the venerable Mercedes, her mobile rang: "Oh bother, David, let me see who this might be."

"Ruth, darling, Sally here. We've only had the most awful news! Chris and Olivia's son, Danny, broke his arm, and they can't have Christmas here. They've invited me to Truro, so I'm scrambling for the afternoon train. Any chance I could pop into Portwenn and rest my head for the night?"

After assuring her old friend that it would be absolutely no trouble to fetch her from the station, Ruth panicked a bit about the state of her home. The extra bedroom was piled with things she had yet to sort, and books and art were stacked about. She must quickly organise her cottage for another guest.

"Oh, David, I am terribly sorry, but my friend, Sally Hocking, is stopping in Portwenn before going on to Truro. Would you mind visiting Tintagel alone? Mark from the shuttle service can drive you there."

"Not at all. I'll look about and write the letter to Meghan. When I return, we can meet up with my new mates at the pub. _**Hei konei ra** , _Ruth."

Waving David on, she hoped his parting words in Maori meant "good bye' and nothing more sinister. This morning's kerfuffle with Barry and Al rankled her, and she resolved not to visit the pub with anyone, much less the "mates." A quiet evening with Sally was all that she wanted.

A few frantic hours later, Ruth pushed this morning's incident to the back of her mind much as she cleared the items cluttering her home. Everything was in place but a duvet, and she could not imagine what became of her blue dotted bed cover. She would look into the surgery to see if Louisa might have one to lend.

Ruth braced herself for the short walk, wondering which of the villagers thought ill of her. She was buoyed by many genuine "Happy Christmas" greetings and hoped that Al exaggerated the gossip about her and David. Approaching the surgery's kitchen door, Ruth heard carols from what was probably BBC1. Each year Christmas music was played the week preceding and after the day itself. She had been in such a muddle after London that she almost lost sight of this annual tradition.

On opening the door, laughter overtook the sound of music, and she was cheered by the happy family scene. Louisa was stringing a red paper garland around a nicely shaped tree and prattling to James Henry about Father Christmas. To his delighted giggles, the baby was being raised and lowered into the air by a man resting on a brightly coloured floor rug. Ruth thought for a moment that Martin was playing with James and chatting with his fiancée. Then her heart sank as she looked again and realized it was David Estilow, not her nephew, creating the mirth.

"Oh, hello Ruth! Isn't the tree fantastic?" Louisa seemed very excited and pleased with her efforts to brighten the surgery's drab décor. "Mags and I were pulling the tree from the Platt, and David happened by to help. She's gone on to her family, and we've only had lunch. More here if you like – beans on toast. David couldn't leave Portwenn without having a meal I cooked – or heated more like."

The young people looked at each other and laughed. "David thought he was insulting my cookery skills but I agreed. Even burned the toast at the first go to prove his point." Another burst of laughter followed, and Ruth wondered if their merry mood was attributable to wine with lunch. But she saw not wine glasses on the table but containers of Coca Cola, a hangover cure she used all too frequently following Russell's death.

Breakfast had been forgotten, and Ruth was well and truly hungry. "That would be lovely dear, but I'll move the beans to the hob and can manage toast as well. David, I'm afraid Louisa and I share the same lack of expertise in the kitchen." Making her way to the cooker, Ruth continued: "I was quite spoiled by Russell who was a marvelous cook. Louisa has the same with Martin. We are – or were in my case – lucky women."

Switching on the hob and stirring the thick bean concoction, Ruth turned to the two and noticed their questioning glances. Louisa spoke first: "Who was Russell, then?"

Blast! How had his name leapt from her mouth? "Oh no one, really. A friend. Someone I knew long ago." Making a quick play to change the subject, Ruth scowled at David: "It would seem that James has deposited part of his lunch on your jumper, and Martin would not approve of you lifting him into the air either. I suggest you stop immediately."

Responding to her scolding tone, David carefully stood with James, brushing at his clothing. "Well, old boy, your aunt's right. I'll just have a clean off. Never liked this jumper. It was a gift from my mother-in-law – when she actually liked me. Count yourself lucky, Glasson, that Mart's parents are tucked away in Portugal, and he never sees them. Chris the piss and Mag the hag. What a pair, right Ruth?"

Despite her rebuke to David, Ruth smiled at the names he long ago conferred on her vile brother and his loathsome wife. "He's right, Louisa. In-law problems will not be amongst your worries. But that isn't the case with Martin, is it?"

A blink of Louisa's eyes and her pressed lips indicated that Ruth had stepped into it; she must react quickly. "Oh dear, forgive me, Louisa. Your mother is lovely, and I'm certain your father is as well."

"So your parents are divorced," David correctly guessed but had no idea of the Pandora's box about to open.

"Yes, divorced many years." Louisa's voice bore that false cheeriness and brittle undertone of one perturbed by the question. "Mum finally left when I was about 11 years of age. Dad and I got along quite well without her. Right as rain. Two peas in a pod. As normal as normal can be. My childhood was quite happy. How could it not be in Portwenn? Everyone was terribly kind. . . ." Louisa's voice trailed off as she added a glittery white bauble to the tree.

Ruth had heard enough from Joan and Muriel Steele about the actual nature of Louisa's childhood, and it was anything but normal. That likely attracted her to Martin and he to her: two damaged psyches who found a common understanding in each other. Both determined not to burden their own child with the horrors they endured. David broke the tension: "Gawd Ruth, you're burning the beans. Take them off the hob! You two are hopeless. I may haul Pots from retirement to teach you basic cookery. But no sex talk – understood!"

Appreciating David's humour even more, Ruth quickly removed the beans, suitably chagrined by her clumsiness in the kitchen. Louisa took James from David and kissed him whilst exclaiming: "You've made quite the mess of daddy's friend, and Auntie Ruth's burned the beans. Now there's only toast and a bit of cheese for lunch." Ruth was relieved that Louisa's mood lightened by simply holding her child. It was quite touching.

"I'll switch on the kettle and make toast—I think the beans can be salvaged. Do you fancy cheese on top? It's a New Zealand specialty." David seemed unfazed by the tense conversation.

Their earlier camaraderie returned as they were sat at the table, tea at hand, Ruth relishing her lunch of cheesy beans on toast. Russell was right: simple food is better. When Louisa picked up James for a nursing, David retreated to the tree and helped Ruth with the remaining bits and bobs. It really did look quite splendid. The pinging of Ruth's mobile ended the enchantment. Sally's train had only now left Exeter, and she should arrive at Bodmin in less than an hour. Ruth must rush.

"Sorry, all, but I'm meeting my friend Sally Hocking at Bodmin Parkway —she's to stay the night. Oh, goodness, Louisa, I forget to tell you. The Parsons' son, Danny, broke his arm, so they're not going into London. It's Olivia's aunt whose visiting me tonight. Chris will fetch her on Christmas Eve, and we've been invited to Boxing Day in Truro. And do you have a spare duvet?"

Louisa looked a bit confused, but Ruth continued: "I assure you it all makes sense, my dear. It's down to your convincing Martin to celebrate the day. You know how he is. . . . "

Whilst Louisa was searching out a bed cover, Ruth turned to David: "Looks as if you've missed Tintagel today. I rarely trot out Kurt Lewin, but if you become mired in approach avoidance, you'll make little progress with your wife."

"That's what Louisa said, but she called it bog standard procrastination. She has the same fears about marrying Martin. Told me to be honest and not say what Meghan wants to hear. I've tried that but it goes nowhere in the end. Why is marriage so bloody complicated? Are you certain it's for you, Louisa?"

Her nephew's fiancée had re-entered the room carrying a large plastic bag and responded quickly to David's query: "Yes, of course. It's perfectly normal to have some misgivings about your future spouse, but Ruth talked me through my concerns, didn't you?" Louisa looked toward Ruth with a plea for confirmation.

She wasn't certain what she had done for Louisa other than listening to her worries about Martin over a few cups of espresso. Perhaps she was having an effect, but the two needed more than a friendly ear – not that her nephew would ever seek any sort of advice.

"Tell you what, Ruth," David offered, "let me come to Bodmin with you - be your dogsbody. Driving, managing the luggage, that sort of thing. We can chat about Meghan as well."

Knowing Sally, she likely would need help. Her friend never traveled lightly. "That would be lovely, David, but you _**must**_ write the letter and be very truthful about your feelings." Ruth could possibly aid one man in a faltering relationship.

"So you're off then, David?" Louisa looked a big crestfallen. "Not having dinner here? I thought we might sing carols later. Have a bit of cheer."

"No we're having a pub supper. Come down later, Louisa. Everyone will be there." Before Ruth could object that she and Daphne would not be amongst "everyone," Louisa spoke a bit wistfully. "No, Martin will want dinner and then have a bath and read with James. It's just that this has been such fun . . . so normal."

Ruth knew how Louisa felt. David did enliven a room and had matured in a way quite unlike his old schoolmate. Perhaps things would change when Martin and Louisa married. Belying her psychiatric training, Ruth left the surgery believing that her nephew could change. Realistically, she knew it would be difficult. But he might do it for Louisa – and James Henry.

Continued. . .


	28. Chapter 28

" _ **Dance Me On and On . . . "**_

 _ **Previously in "Dance Me to the End of Love" : Ruth Ellingham has returned to Portwenn from a successful book signing in London days before Christmas and a few months before her nephew's marriage. Martin's school mate, David Estilow, arrived unexpectedly in Portwenn, and Ruth has entertained him while lending a sympathetic ear to his marital woes. As David is about to depart, Ruth's longtime friend, Sally Hocking, comes to the village, en route to Christmas in Truro. The days before and after Christmas unfold against the fitful relationship between Louisa Glasson and Martin Ellingham. **_

**Chapter 28 - Tom Bawcock's Eve**

 **The pain was not as difficult as the numbness. Pain Ruth could tolerate or medicate but the numbness was concerning. Surely it was the beginning of the Lupus Nephritis that claimed her mother. Martin said not, but her medical training was every bit as good as his, and she still feared the disease. Mentioning her concern to Martin, he quickly dismissed it. Not with sympathy or much care, but only with a firm: "You don't have Lupus."**

 **Still, Ruth needed sleep to rise early and organize Sally's trip to Truro. Collecting her dressing gown, she made her way from the bedroom by moonlight and recognized Sally's audible snoring coming from the guest room. Her friend would be mortified by this unseemliness, so Ruth never told her. One of many secrets she bore for others.**

 **Ruth moved slowly down the stairs, making certain to tread lightly on the creaky fourth step. Walking round her guest's cases and packages littering the lounge, she switched on the kitchen light and reached for water and the tablets Martin prescribed. Half a tablet and several swallows of water would manage the pain and restore sleep. Until then she nestled into an armchair that she recently had covered in a smart, linen fabric. "Greige" the stockist in Wadebridge pronounced, and Ruth nodded her approval. Louisa suggested she choose something with a pop of colour – whatever that might be - but this greige colour was quite soothing and the chair terribly comfortable.**

 **Flexing her hands Ruth felt the pain lessen and sighed in gratitude. The evening had been quite tiring, and she needed rest. Meeting Sally Hocking at Bodmin Parkway Station had been every bit what Ruth imagined. Her friend was handed down from the train, resplendent in a scarlet boiled wool cape, her bobbed hair gleaming like silver in the weak station light. A retinue of young men followed, each seemingly assigned a task to move her from the train to Ruth's car. David Estilow marched them to the car park where he valiantly filled the boot and a bit of the Ford's rear seat with Sally's bounty. With a regal wave of her leather gloved hand and a smile each man thought for him alone, Sally sent her courtiers on their way: "Thank you ever so – Happy Christmas." David was impressed, Ruth less so, after years of witnessing her friend's prowess with the opposite sex.**

 **Ruth smiled, recalling the easy banter between David and Sally as they rushed to Portwenn for Tom Bawcock's Eve. This Cornish holiday was unknown to Ruth until Louisa insisted that the three partake of the traditional meal of Stargazy Pie. Ruth shuddered a bit as Louisa presented the dish with pilchard heads peeking out of the well baked crust. Setting aside the fish heads, the pie was delicious, and everyone complimented Louisa - with the exception of Martin - who grumbled that the crème fraiche was unnecessary. He did approve of the customary rhubarb chutney, less so of the Yarg cheese.**

 **Louisa told of the** **famine that threatened nearby Mousehole during the 16th Century when ferocious windstorms lashed the coast. Fishermen could not put out their boats for weeks, and food supplies were exhausted. Tom Bawcock braved the gales and returned with a large catch of fish only days before Christmas. To commemorate his life saving deed, Stargazy Pie is eaten by the Cornish on 23rd** **December.**

 **David Estilow described Christmas in New Zealand, when the southern and eastern hemispheres are in the midst of summer. Whitebait fish fritters were a tradition, but the fruit filled Pavlova meringues proved more appetizing in the warm weather. More often than not, David was elsewhere for Christmas - either on a posting with his mum or at school in England or the States. No matter where, his grannie ensured he had Anzac biscuits for the holiday. The rolled oat cakes were a staple of Aussie and Kiwi soldiers during the First World War, but packets could now be found at any Tesco or Waitrose.**

 **Readily admitting her lack of culinary skills, Sally mentioned that her Irish born grandmother always made Jonathan Swift's burnt oranges with double cream for Christmas tea. The goose and bread sauce were less of a treat than the piquant pudding from her youth.**

" **A simple orange salad and Quaver's crisps would have been healthier than that horrid pie and cheese," Martin muttered. Ruth interrupted him before he could say more, but a glance toward Louisa's downcast eyes showed she had heard.**

" **Martin, you'll recall the delicious meals your grandmother made for Christmas – turkey, swede and turnips, roasted potatoes – and the pikelets. Mother and Father thought them more Welsh than Yorkshire, but their families enjoyed them at Christmas.**

" **What's a pikelet," David queried. He, too, was trying to lighten the mood following Martin's churlish comment.**

" **It's a fat laden crumpet, burned on a grill, and then topped with over sweet jam and clotted cream," Martin answered before Ruth could.**

 **"Thank you, Martin, but David asked your aunt, not you," Louisa snapped.**

" **Well, he's right, my dear." Ruth assumed the role of peacemaker between her nephew and fiancée. "We served them on Boxing Day as well. Mother and Father opened their home the day after Christmas, and it was always a lovely party. I believe that's where Christopher met your mother, Martin. Joan and I were at school with Margaret, and she would have been invited. We asked everyone."**

" **Well that's a bit of Ellingham family history I didn't know. Do you recall anything else about those parties, Martin?" Ruth was encouraged by Louisa's effort to remain calm. "That's the sort of thing we should do for James Henry. Have people in for Boxing Day, so that he'll have memories to pass on to his children."**

" **Nonsense, Louisa. James can barely sort out the difference between his fingers and toes. No need for that sort of rubbish."**

" **Well, not now, of course. I mean later. When he's in school. We can have his friends and their parents for a bit of holiday cheer. The Parsons invited us for Boxing Day, and you'll see how fun it can be."**

" **Of course, you're coming with Ruth for Boxing Day, Sally looked to Martin. "Chris is having an old fashioned Punch and Judy show to make up for the children's missed trip to London. It will be quite festive." Sally bestowed her brightest smile on Martin.**

 **Possibly for the first time in her life, Ruth saw Sally Hocking's considerable charm crumble in the face of her scowling nephew. Pointedly ignoring her, Martin barked at David: "Look Estilow if you're to make that late flight from Newquay to Gatwick, we should leave now. Rain's coming in, and I don't want to be away if there's an emergency. With all the holiday lets filling up, some Londoner likely will do something stupid. Not to mention the village morons."**

 **The four of them gaped at Martin, all good cheer gone. What had been a pleasant evening ended on quite a bleak note as her nephew pulled on his coat, keys jangling impatiently in his hand.**

 **The three women rallied enough to offer David wishes for a Happy Christmas. Ruth squeezed his arm reassuringly and stood on tip toe to kiss his cheek. "Remember what I suggested. We want to see you next with Meghan and your children." Louisa followed suit, and offered a repentant smile for Martin's truculence. How many more times would she do so in the face of his poor behavior? Louisa confided in Ruth that she understood what marrying her nephew entailed and thought she could manage quite well. Ruth wasn't as confident, but she continued to offer a bit of advice to the couple. Each was deeply insecure and overreacted when the other touched that insecurity. Martin had only to hint that Louisa fell short in some aspect of life for her to become defencive. Louisa's suggesting that her fiancé be sympathetic to patients and villagers was met with chilly silence. How could these two possibly make much of the marriage now only a few months hence?**

 **Ruth thought again of the young London psychologist who said it was not uncommon for couples entering marriage later in life to seek counseling. Both Martin and Louisa had led quite independent lives, and their unaided attempts to meld those lives together were ineffective. Perhaps she should suggest they have a trip to London in January before their wedding. The two had never taken even an overnight holiday together, and it might be helpful. She planned to give them a bit of money for Christmas - perhaps she should add a note that it be used for time away. Maybe meet with Rachel in London. That wouldn't be interfering, would it?**

 **With more hopefulness than she felt earlier in the evening, Ruth returned to her bed, the pain alleviated, the numbness gone. Sleep then came easily.**

 **Good! It would be difficult to find rest in the hectic next days.**

 **Continued . . .**

 ** _Author's note: Since my last chapter, the brilliant Canadian poet, Leonard Cohen, died. The title of this story and the chapter headings are from his poem, "Dance Me to the End of Love." Rest in peace, Leonard Cohen, among those you honored with your elegiac verse._**


	29. Chapter 29

" _ **Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn . . ."**_

 **Chapter 29 – Christmas Eve**

 _ **Author's Note: This chapter contains mild spoilers for Season 8.**_

 **Ruth awakened the next morning to the sound of male voices resonating throughout her cottage, Sally's laughter mixed amongst them. Whatever her friend had gotten up to, she could manage nicely whilst Ruth prepared for the day. Not fifteen minutes later Ruth entered her kitchen to find Barry Johnson, Al Large, and a uniformed man drinking coffee, all apparently enchanted by Sally Hocking.**

" **Ruth, darling, little wonder you love Portwenn. Al and Barry are terribly charming along with this young man - sorry, I didn't get your name."**

" **I'm from Cornwall Courier and have the rush Christmas delivery for Doctor Ruth Ellingham. I'm Justin Thyme."**

" **That would be the books from my publisher." Ruth was relieved that Nicola had expedited to Portwenn. "Have you the other carton for Saint Peter's?"**

" **In the van. I'll drop them after the office parcels from London. Why go on holiday if you can't leave work behind?"**

" **Why indeed?" Sally asked as she escorted the courier to the door. Barry hastened from the table and poured coffee for Ruth from the French press Louisa insisted she buy in Wadebridge. "I've brought everything to make breakfast for you – salmon, eggs from Treweth farm. . . "**

" **And marmalade," Al interrupted. "Morwenna said you like the orange with a bit of ginger. Is this right?"**

 **Ruth examined the label on the jar Al offered and was touched by his eagerness to please. "As long as it doesn't contain fish heads, it sounds delicious, especially the marmalade. Sally has a bit of a journey today, so I'm sure she'll appreciate a hearty breakfast."**

" **But I'll enjoy the company more," Sally beamed at the two young men. "I'll dress and collect my last bits and bobs. Chris should be here shortly. "**

 **Before Barry cracked the first egg, the knocker banged sharply against the cottage door. Ruth rolled her eyes, wondering if yet another man learned of Sally Hocking's presence in the village. Instead, it was Olivia Parsons who didn't seem in a mood for anyone.**

" **Oh, these bloody awful Cornish roads. Between the bloody lorries and the bloody Londoners who can't drive properly it was a bloody nightmare getting here. I left at half seven and should have been here an hour ago. Bloody Chris! He didn't have a bloody emergency meeting - he bloody well didn't want to make the trip from Truro!"**

 **During her brief tirade, Barry had the good sense to prepare a cup of coffee for the new visitor and place it at the spot vacated just in time. Al stood, and politely reached for Olivia's coat: "Let me help you, then. My mate's making breakfast, and we'll have you back to Truro in good order."**

 **Not ready to end her pout, Olivia demanded: "Who're you then?"**

" **Olivia Parsons, these are my two business associates," Ruth gestured toward both, "Albert Large and Barry Johnson. They work with me on the bed and breakfast – my sister's farm. We are converting it to a fishing lodge – for Londoners – or for anyone, really." Ruth wondered why she believed that the venture would amount to anything. It only gave Barry and Al false hope for the future.**

 **After more whinging from Olivia, Sally entered the room and immediately mollified her niece. "Olivia, gorgeous girl, what an effort you've made to fetch your old auntie. What a fantastic niece you are. Let's move into the dining room whilst these gentlemen prepare what I'm sure will be a feast for the gods. It's nearly Christmas. We mustn't be grumpy."**

 **The scrambled eggs and salmon did go down a treat, but Ruth was relieved when Sally declared it time to leave. Barry and Al hauled her friend's packages to the waiting car amidst wishes for a Happy Christmas and promises to meet on Boxing Day. The cottage became very quiet as Ruth retreated to her greige chair and her business associates cleaned the kitchen. Before leaving, they presented Ruth with a poorly wrapped gift which she ceremoniously placed beside the crèche brought from Havenhurst Farm. In return, Ruth handed each of them a calendar diary with a 50 pound note tucked inside. If they were organised around dates, perhaps they could do a better job of setting and meeting goals. She had tried this with her Broadmoor patients to little effect. But Al and Barry were not criminally insane – or not that she had noticed – so the scheme might be useful for them.**

 **Ruth waved the two off toward Large's Restaurant and closed her door against the wind. "Guests are best after they've left," was one of her dear Russell's many aphorisms and today Ruth agreed with him. She had a rather quiet life in London, and found the liveliness of Portwenn a bit overwhelming at times. If it weren't for Louisa and James, she would lock the door and emerge on 27** **th** **December. But Martin's fiancée took so much joy from her tiny family that Ruth simply could not disappoint her.**

 **Using a letter opener to slice into the carton of books, Ruth brought forth two: one for Morwenna's present to Al, and one for Louisa and Martin. She signed them with her name and "Happy Christmas." Her young editors had devised many clever inscriptions for her book signings, but in Portwenn she was Ruth Ellingham – nothing more. Why try to embellish what was a perfectly good name and a perfectly good life?**

 **Now that might be something Ismail would say. Russell Fairhill and Ismail Rahmanzai. How had she fallen in love with two so very different men? But she had. Fate had other plans for her: one man returned to his dying wife, and the other died weeks before their wedding. She missed both of them terribly and now had only their memories.**

 **She reached into her desk for a small, worn envelope sent by Joan whilst Ruth was testifying in Montreal. It might have been missed amongst the accumulated post, had Joan not alerted her to it: "Did you see the bit from 'The Guardian'? The Queen has made Doctor Rahmanzai a Commander of the British Empire. Not quite a Dame but better than an OBE. I thought you'd want to know."**

 **Ismail had been honoured for establishing the Brain Mapping Unit at Cambridge University. He never returned to Broadmoor after his wife's death, although a long paragraph extolled his accomplishments at the hospital. A one sentence paragraph noted that his wife, Nasreen, was deceased and that his son, John, was a lecturer in Medieval Literature at Durham University.**

 **Although his wife died many years ago, Ismail did not contact Ruth nor she him. Each had honoured the pact they made on that long ago Christmas in Portwenn. They would not create their happiness on the grave of Ismail's wife.**

 **During school half terms, Nasreen always returned to Lahore with their son, leaving Issy to Ruth. Parting the lounge curtains, she saw only a sliver of the cottage where they spent their last time together. Her nephew would be at the farm for the two week half term, and Joan diplomatically suggested that she and Issy stay elsewhere. Martin had trailed her lover around the farm during their summertime visits, asking countless questions that impressed the noted psychiatrist. Now approaching puberty, Joan worried that Martin's questions might concern the relationship between Auntie Ruth and Doctor Rahmanzai rather than medicine.**

 **Martin accompanied them on the train from London to Portwenn, and the three had an engrossing conversation about John Bowlby's maternal deprivation hypothesis. Martin was particularly interested in Bowlby's "44 Thieves Study" of juvenile criminals. Ruth was horrified that her nephew might somehow believe he would become a criminal because of Margaret's neglect. She tried to re-assure him, but she, too, had concerns. Her nephew blithely dismissed them: "Don't worry, Auntie Ruth. I only want to understand this from a clinical standpoint. It has nothing to do with me. I'm fine."**

 **After a delightful Christmas Eve with Martin, Joan and Phil, she and Issy returned to the somewhat rustic cottage, heated only by logs burning on the grate. Issy added more wood before joining Ruth under several feather duvets. He was only a bit taller than Ruth and also slight of build. Their bodies easily fit together, and they made love, thrilled once again to be together in Portwenn.**

 **Awakening near dawn, Ruth playfully kicked her lover and ordered him to stoke the fire. He pulled a duvet around himself and added more wood to the grate. The flames ignited again, both in the grate and between them.**

 **After dozing well into the morning, Izzy quizzed Ruth about Martin's parents. For a young child to focus on a mental pathology was unusual, no matter how precocious he might be. Ruth admitted that she shared his concern, particularly with a change she noticed in Martin between the ages of four and six years. Despite his mother's disinterest, he had been well loved by his grandparents and aunties as a baby. Around age four years, he became a withdrawn, solitary child given to bed wetting and morose silence. Ruth wondered if Martin was, indeed, psychologically affected by maternal neglect.**

" **He very well could be. The bedwetting and lack of communication at age four indicate an infantilization of himself, still trying to win mummy's attention. His parents likely sent him off at an early age, so that the school could deal with his issues. British public schools have no sympathy for a boy like Martin, and he would have been thrown into the thick of it. Losing his last attempt at a mother's love at age six and then being booted from the family harmed Martin." What Issy said did not surprise Ruth. She had been worried about Martin for many years.**

" **You really should encourage your brother to have the boy evaluated. His problems will only grow worse in adolescence. The wards at Broadmoor are filled with men who were children like Martin, except they are not of his class. His intelligence will allow him to function, but he will never be healthy until he resolves his abandonment issues. The father is secondary to his problems. Mark my words, Ruth, Martin will be undone by his longing for a loving mother and family.**

" **Now my son probably has the opposite problem – too close to his mum. Nasreen could have only the one child and, with no family here, she dotes on John. It's been difficult, but I've made an effort not to let that affect him. Both of us are content to read the day away, but I've involved John in sport to help him separate from Nasreen as he matures. He's quite good at cricket, and I enjoy his matches. He's only a bit older than Martin, and you should see him play, Ruth. He's a father's joy."**

 **There it was! That pang that crushed Ruth when Ismail spoke of his family. He was doing for his son what she longed to do for Martin but could not as an aunt. What was she playing at? Another woman's husband, an innocent child's father! How would it affect John if he knew of her? Ruth had tried to "enjoy the moment," but could not. Just as Martin might question her relationship with Issy, John might question the relationship between his father and mother. Did he understand that their arranged marriage was based on custom rather than love? Even so, that did not excuse Ruth's behavior. It had bothered her from their first kiss, but she sacrificed her integrity to banish loneliness. Issy had done the same.**

 **Ruth put on a brave face for the rest of Christmas Day, although the traditional charades with Martin were challenging. Phil and Issy laughed uproariously as she and Joan gamely tried to work out their nephew's five word book title. Completely stumped by the first word, they moved on to the second. Ruth quickly deduced "cannon" from Martin's clues, and then Joan - not surprisingly - guessed "medicine." Finally, when Martin pointed to a painting with a birdcage, Joan shouted, "aviary." But it was Ismail who uncovered the title: "Avicenna's: The Canon of Medicine," he declared.**

" **Right, Doctor Rahmanzai! I thought you'd know Muslim medical practices." Ruth was stunned. Always perceptive, she wondered how much more Martin knew about Ismail. This had to end.**

 **And it did. Gathering their luggage from the frigid cottage, Ruth turned to her darling Issy:**

" **I love you more than anyone or anything I have ever known. But we both know that this is wrong. It will end now. We will have no more contact with each other. Ever."**

 **Issy removed his dark rimmed spectacles and inhaled deeply before finally speaking:**

" **Ruth, my wife is very ill. She's gone back to Pakistan to be with her family, and I am taking a sabbatical from Broadmoor to join her. What happens will happen, but we cannot make our happiness because of Nasreen's death."**

 **Ruth nodded agreement because she simply could not speak. The pain was that great. She stoically endured their return trip to London, reading and talking little beyond the necessary. A few days later, Ruth returned to Broadmoor and the news that their beloved Doctor Rahmanzai was on sabbatical. Patients and staff were terribly saddened by his departure. One of her registrars was particularly distraught: "You really don't understand the depth of his genius, Doctor Ellingham. He's a fine man too. So devoted to his wife and son. Who takes a sabbatical to be with a dying wife? I have never met a physician or man as good as he is, have you?"**

 **Ruth had to walk away quickly, taking yet another secret with her.**

 **Continued . . .**


	30. Chapter 30

" _ **We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above. . ."**_

 **Chapter 30 – Christmas Day**

Ruth begged off Christmas Eve dinner with Martin and Louisa and politely declined Bert Large's personal invitation to dine at his restaurant. "No charge, Ruth, unless you fancy lobster. That's a bit more, you see. I appreciate what you're doing for Al – giving the boy a chance. Maybe Large's Restaurant could offer lunch and dinner at your B&B – do it up right."

To coax Bert from her greige chair, Ruth promised to stop at his restaurant - at least for a glass of wine, if not a full meal. "Wine's lovely, Ruth. I found a nice deal on an Austrian red – Al says it's a bit dry, but it seems wet enough to me."

Ruth shook her head as she closed the door behind Bert and retreated to her desk. Mary Langdon, the new vicar at Saint Peter's, persuaded Ruth to hold a book signing following Christmas service. Despite the book's academic nature, Mary assured her: "Londoners will buy anything, and we need the funds for Meals on Wheels. The old dears can barely pay the minimum, and the church meets the gap. The luvvies can't do it all."

As she became more familiar with Portwenn, Ruth understood the importance of organic farming and tourism to its lagging economy. Commercial fishing was in decline, and many descendants of fishermen now worked on North Sea oil rigs and windmill farms. Only yesterday, Ruth saw a number of Louisa's students clutching the hands of windburn men she had never seen in the village. Fathers home for Christmas holiday.

After a bit of prodding, Geoffrey Hardesty graciously donated a carton of books to the cause. With her four remaining books, she had twenty four to sell. Portwenn was very different from the Doyle's stores in London, and she feared disappointing the new vicar.

Ruth gratefully whiled away the late afternoon opening the post and updating her Christmas card list. More than a few friends and spouses had died, and others had new addresses in far flung retirement spots. She had not officially changed her address to Portwenn, so the post had been forwarded from London. With one foot still in her Crowthorne flat, then Havenhurst and now the village, it was a bit much. She really must decide where to live.

As she was pondering her future, the knocker struck lightly against the cottage door. Morwenna Newcross stood outside, grinning expectantly and holding a fragrant package covered in green tissue. "This is for you, Dr. Ellingham. It's a Cornish Christmas bunch made from holly, ivy, and fir trees. Hang it by this ribbon in your window, and it'll bring good luck for the year. It dates back to _Nadelik Lowen_ when Christmas was celebrated in Cornwall but not in England. Charles Dickens changed all that with 'A Christmas Carol.' Did you know that?"

Ruth often wondered if Morwenna was attracted to Al Large because he, too, had a treasure of information about Cornish culture and history. Like her business associate, she thought the young receptionist quite endearing and was touched to the point of swallowing twice to quell her emotions: "Thank you for the very thoughtful gift. And I have your book for Al. I've signed it, but can add more if you like."

"Whatever you wrote is good. Al's so proud to know a real author. Could I give you five pounds now and pay a pound a week?"

"Goodness, there's no cost. These books are complimentary from the publisher. Wants to be rid of them, I'm afraid." Along with the book, Ruth handed the girl a small flat box, wrapped in fancy paper from a London shop. She and Morwenna were amongst the few who fancied the village seagulls, and Ruth thought she might like the necklace.

If flinging her arms around Ruth constituted appreciation, Morwenna was happy with both the present and book. "Thank you, Doctor Ellingham. I'll open this tomorrow with Al. We're working at the restaurant and will have Christmas there. Wish me luck!"

Ruth closed the door against the darkening sky and remembered that she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Concerned that stiff hands would ruin tomorrow's book signing, she took a full tablet following a meal of tinned soup and the salmon left from breakfast. Any thought of doing more ended as grogginess forced her to retire early. She awakened near 2 o'clock on Christmas morning to the sound of revelers leaving the candle dancing on the platte. Morwenna earlier explained that a large circle was drawn in the sand, lighted candles were stuck within the circle, and people danced around it. It was a grand tradition with both the villagers and down-from-town visitors.

Feeling somewhat guilty about Bert's invitation, she reached for her mobile to see if he had phoned. No calls, but a series of texts from old colleagues and friends wishing her a Happy Christmas. An hour ago Louisa had texted a reminder to meet at 9 for the service at Saint Peter's. Ruth hesitated responding at this hour but sent a terse: "see you then." A few seconds later, Louisa responded with an angel emoji. James must be grizzling if Louisa were awake so late.

Later that morning, Ruth took a bit more care in preparing for church, adding her mother's pearls at the last moment. She hurried to meet Louisa and first spotted James, tucked tightly into his pram with a red and white stripey cap covering his wee head. "It's from my mum and a bit naff. But it's his first Christmas. I couldn't resist. I wish she were here to see him."

"Is that from your mother, as well?" Ruth pointed to the crimson scarf encircling Louisa's neck.

"No. It's from Martin. Silk and a bit posh. I was terribly surprised. He's really quite thoughtful." Ruth only nodded as she tucked her totebag into the pram and helped Louisa push it up hill toward the overflowing church.

Mary Langdon accorded herself well, providing both solemnity and pageantry for the C&E congregants. On the last note of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," the vicar loudly invited everyone to the church hall to meet renowned London author, Dr. Ruth Ellingham.

"Oh, dear," Ruth grimaced. "How embarrassing!"

"So you're doing it, then?" Louisa looked pleased. "I told Mary she'd only to ask. It's very kind of you. Let me take James home, and I'll start dinner. Come as soon as you're finished."

Ruth was led away by Lucy Gwitby, who ordinarily worked at the co-op, but revealed she was also the church verger. Geoffrey Hardesty would find it amusing that she even had "people" in Portwenn! But hope for Meals on Wheels waned as most people surrounded the tables selling Cornish fairings, hevva cakes, and mince pasties.

Eventually, a thin blonde woman draped in masses of white cashmere approached the table and began flipping through the book: "What's it about, then," she seemed somewhat distracted.

"It's about recidivism amongst the criminally insane. It's based on my work at Broadmoor Hospital." Ruth deliberately adopted a plummy accent.

"Recidivism? Is that like doing the same thing over and over again and never getting it right?" The blonde narrowed her eyes at Ruth.

"Something of the sort," Ruth thought her definition sufficient.

"I'll take one," the woman became more animated. "Give it to my sister. She's on husband number four and definitely a recidivist."

The verger stepped forward with a card reader and announced: "That'll be 20 pounds for the book – or 25 pounds if you want it signed by the author."

"Of course, I'll want it signed. And can you add: 'To Cressida – you will always have a home with us.'"

Ruth did as instructed and felt more optimistic as the woman showed the book to a tall man in running kit and pointed toward her. An hour later, the twenty four books were sold, some with dubious inscriptions, Ruth's favourite being: "Was that your ex in Chapter Eight?"

Lucy and the vicar were incredulous: "You raised 600 pounds Doctor Ellingham! A happy Christmas indeed. We'll offer a prayer for you at vespers."

"No – that's not necessary," Ruth demurred. Touching her mother's pearls, she thought again. "If it wouldn't be too much, perhaps remember my parents, Henry and Dorothy Ellingham. They supported a number of charities for the elderly and may have been the reason for today's success."

Walking her to the church gate, the vicar offered Christmas wishes to Ruth and her family. Ruth hurried down the hill with a light step, realizing that she was, indeed, eager to join her family.

After tapping softly, Ruth entered the surgery's kitchen door to find Martin bent over the cooker, extracting fluids from the roasting pan and transferring them to a glass cup. "Shouldn't you be basting the turkey rather than removing the liquid?" Ruth asked.

"Well that's what Louisa said, but if she insists on eating fowl rather than fish, I want to remove the fat."

"Martin, turkey is a very lean meat, and the bird will become dry if you don't baste it. Have you ever roasted a turkey?"

"No, have you?" Her nephew knew cooking was not her strong suit.

"As a matter of fact I have, and you should at least let it cook in the juices and baste it. There's nothing worse than a dry turkey."

With more than a little grumbling, Martin did as she suggested and firmly closed the oven door. "We'll be eating turkey for months."

"You can always take any remaining food to Boxing Day at the Parsons. That's the tradition, you see."

"We're not going to the Parsons! I've had enough of the old school tie with Estilow. Why you bothered with him is beyond me."

"Martin, really! His mother is my friend, and you were together at school for six years. He was quite entertaining and helpful. I never could've managed Sally's visit without him."

"Oh and that woman. She was always daft, now she's demented. Olivia Parsons should find a care home for her aunt before she endangers herself and others."

Ruth came to the defence of her friend: "Sally Hocking is a brilliant physician and has done more to wrest mental health funding from Parliament than anyone you or I know. She is not demented. You've known her forever, but never liked her. Why's that?"

Clearly uncomfortable with the question, Martin mucked about the cooker with a kitchen towel until Ruth repeated her question: "Why don't you like Sally? It's a simple question Martin?"

He tossed the kitchen towel into the sink and turned to Ruth: "She's like my mother," he hissed. "Flirts with men, doesn't give a care about anyone but herself. You think she goes to Parliament for the NHS, but it's to make herself look good. She hasn't a care about anyone except herself!"

Not wishing to get into it about his mother, Ruth only said: "Well you're certainly in a foul mood. Were you called out on an emergency last night? Is that why Louisa was awake in the early hours?"

"No emergencies. It's Estilow. Gave me an earful on the way to Newquay. 'Don't make my mistakes, Mart. Louisa is a wonderful woman. You really should apologize for insulting her cooking.' All that sort of rubbish.

"Then he became very sentimental about school: 'Remember the Christmas services, Ellingham? Singing 'Silent Night' in German and English until the tree was lighted.' All things I want to forget."

"Martin, you received an excellent education at Tonbridge, and the school has traditions that should stay with you."

"Like what? An old boy talking about a Christmas truce during World War One? You saw the wrecks who came back to Tonbridge after the wars. They were charity cases that the school looked after. God and country and all that rot."

"You may be right, Martin, but try to smarten up a bit for Louisa. She wants today to be perfect for you and James. Incidentally, that scarf you gave her is lovely. Has she given you a present?"

Ruth first thought Martin was reacting to the hot kitchen as a deep pink tinged his face to the tips of his considerable ears. His response was even more flustered: "No. Not as such. Possibly. I'm not sure if it's a present. Only – well – something. After I apologized, that is. Estilow may have been right about apologizing. It was good. Yes, good . . . ."

Oh dear, had Ruth stepped into it? Her thoughts were confirmed as Louisa came into the kitchen, carrying James Henry, and placed a kiss on Martin's cheek and an arm around his waist. The look that passed between them was unmistakable, and Ruth felt a bit intrusive.

Martin being Martin, the moment ended quickly as he pulled away from Louisa, again blushing: "Another hour or so for the turkey. Ruth told me to baste, and I did. Don't blame me if it's ruined."

Rather than being offended, Louisa became a bit coquettish: "Did you hear that James Henry? Daddy's grumpy again, but Mummy knows how to fix that!"

Ruth had to laugh as Martin bolted to the door gasping: "There may be a bit of purple sage left in the garden – I'll just have a look."

No purple sage was found, nor was it needed. The turkey was moist, the lemon glazed carrots delicious, and the potatoes acceptable, given Martin's substitution of yoghurt for butter. Louisa and Ruth drank Champagne sent by a grateful tourist Martin diagnosed with Hashimoto's disease during her holiday in Portwenn. "Well done, darling," Louisa exclaimed after emptying the second glass. "Perhaps you can charge in Champagne rather than chickens!"

Before dinner, they had pulled their Christmas crackers and emptied out the paper crowns, trinkets, and silly jokes. Even Martin donned the crown and wore it through dinner, his mood revived by Louisa.

"You read the first joke," Louisa urged Ruth.

"Actually it's quite appropriate," Ruth held the tiny piece of paper to the light. "What do you call a bunch of chess players bragging in a hotel lobby?" Ruth paused for effect with neither Martin or Louisa having the answer. "Chess nuts boasting in an open foyer."

"A bit of a groaner, Auntie Ruth. "Let me go next," Martin actually seemed eager.

"What did Adam say to his wife the day before Christmas?"

"Well I know what you said to me," Louisa teased. "What did Adam say?"

"It's Christmas, Eve," Martin stammered a bit.

It was Louisa who had the best joke: "What's sticky, lies in a pram and wiggles?"

Ruth and Martin shrugged simultaneously.

"A jelly baby," Louisa shouted with glee.

"God, jelly babies, Louisa! You ate them during your pregnancy. I'm surprised James Henry's fingers and toes weren't stuck together when he was born!"

"Oh, Martin, you made a joke! James, Daddy said something funny!"

"Before Martin has us all in fits, perhaps we should have the steamed pudding and espresso. "The Champagne's left me a bit heady." Ruth was not exaggerating.

"Not until the Queen's Christmas speech!" Louisa rose quickly from the table. "Martin, what time is it? We can't miss it. I always watched it with my mum . . . well for a time I did."

With only a few minutes to spare, they huddled by the telly to hear the Queen's uplifting message and Christmas wishes to her shrinking Commonwealth. Ruth and Louisa were royalists and preferred blaming the Prime Minister for everything bad in the country. Martin felt the opposite. To his credit, he said nothing, possibly noticing Louisa wiping away tears as the talk concluded with a film clip of the Queen and her grandchildren.

"I wish my mum and dad were here," Louisa's voice was anguished. "They're not the best, but they're my family."

Continued . . . .

 _Author's Note: My fanfic, "A Christmas Truce," describes the World War I Christmas truce between German and British soldiers referred to in this chapter. The truce is within the context of Martin and Louisa's strained relationship at the end of Season 6. For them, it proves a hopeful Christmas tale._


	31. Chapter 31

" _ **Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in. . . . "**_

 **Chapter 31 – Boxing Day**

 **Consoling the inconsolable was an art mastered by Ruth Ellingham in her first year of medical school. Patients did not need consoling as much as her fellow students who suffered at the hands of the medical faculty. "Young ladies have no place in medicine, Miss Hocking. You take spots from more capable men who must support families. If you want to help the sick, learn housewifery skills and marry a proper physician. You will never be one."**

 **Sally Hocking held her composure until Professor Alderson swept from the laboratory, six smug male registrars in his wake. Then she turned to her lab partner, Ruth Ellingham, and collapsed in tears. This was the beginning of Ruth's schooling in consolation for patients, colleagues, and families.**

 **After the Queen's speech, Louisa's grief nearly matched Sally's as she clutched James Henry to her breast and sobbed. Aunt and nephew were so surprised that they could not sort out who should go to her. Finally Ruth uttered a simple "Martin, please" and nodded to his fiancée. He stiffly approached her, arms extended, but Louisa turned away: "I want my mum. I want my mum for Christmas. Only this once."**

 **Martin cast a pleading look to his aunt: "Now, dear," Ruth placed her hand on the young woman's back, "let me take James and I'll see to the steam pudding and coffee. Stay here a bit with Martin. You've had a very difficult time of it, and it's natural to miss your mother on Christmas. She sent very thoughtful gifts, and I'm certain she misses you as well."**

 **Louisa sniffed back more tears, extracted a tissue from her pocket, and leaned into Martin. He looked terrified, but Ruth gave him an encouraging tilt of her head and returned to the kitchen. She placed James Henry in his bouncer seat with fingers crossed that he would not cry. Dear boy may have sensed his mother's distress, and quietly lolled about, waving his tiny arms.**

 **With espresso ready and cream whipped, Ruth left the kitchen to find Louisa huddled against her bewildered fiancé. "Shall I bring everything in? James is quite content for the moment."**

 **Louisa disentangled herself from Martin who looked relieved as he straightened his jacket and trousers. "That would be nice, Ruth, but I want to be with Martin and James. Do you mind ending Christmas a bit early?"**

" **Of course, not." That familiar knife of rejection made Ruth pause a bit too long. "Let me bring in the child."**

" **That's not necessary." Martin was a bit curt. "I'll see to him as soon as I've settled Louisa."**

" **I'll just leave your gifts here by the tree," Ruth was again feeling like an intruder into her nephew's life. "Dinner was absolutely delicious and I hope Louisa will have a good rest."**

 **Ruth took her coat from the peg and saw herself out. Twilight was descending on the village, and she had the random thought that the days would now become lighter following the Winter Solstice. The very idea enlivened her face, and villagers would report that Doctor Ruth Ellingham looked quite chipper on Christmas day.**

 **In her cottage, the façade fell and she was reminded how she missed her own mother. Dorothy Ellingham championed her appointment to Saint Thomas's for medical training, and the two grew quite close as mum aged. Ruth did not cry for her mother, nor her father, nor Joan and Phil, nor lost friends and lovers. She cried on realizing that Martin and Louisa were not as dependent on her as she had imagined. With James Henry they had forged a familial bond that excluded her. It's only natural, she reasoned, but what am I to do? For the last six months, she allowed herself the hope of a relationship Sally Hocking enjoyed with her niece's family. Not the same as having children of one's own, but there would be a connection –perhaps even love. Now, that did not seem possible.**

 **Ruth switched on BBC1 radio for their ongoing broadcast of Christmas carols. Then she turned to the internet, searching for retirement locales favoured by English ex-pats. None seemed particularly appealing, perhaps because of the ex-pat population. From there, it was on to the NHS website searching for psychiatric postings. Could she be re-hired for a place where no one knew her - perhaps Northern Ireland? She had worked with a few IRA prisoners at Broadmoor and understood the Irish psyche.**

 **Her mind still sorting through the possibilities, Ruth nestled into her bed with a dull book, fully expecting sleep to elude her. It did not. She slept easily and awoke the next day to sunshine and the ringing of her mobile.**

 **Clearing her throat and blinking into the daylight, Ruth tried not to croak: "Hullo?"**

" **Auntie Ruth, it's Martin. You must come to the surgery immediately. That woman is here. She's upsetting Louisa, and I won't have it after yesterday!"**

" **You don't mean Sally Hocking?" Why was Martin so confused? "She's in Truro with the Parsons."**

" **No, not that woman. That other woman – that Bee Bee woman – from London. Louisa's friend. Well she's says a friend, but really I'm not certain. Louisa had an early morning walk with James Henry and they followed her back to the surgery. That woman and her louche man – or whatever he is. Can you come sort this out Ruth?"**

 **Martin was making little sense, so she asked to speak with his fiancee. A few minutes later, Louisa sounding quite jolly said: "Good morning Ruth. Have you been out – weather's beautiful."**

" **Not yet, dear, but Martin said you've a couple at the surgery who are bothering you. They aren't ramblers or something of the sort?"**

" **Ramblers!" now Louisa was amused. "It's Babs and her fiance – they were passing through from Rock. I took James to meet them at the cafe. I knew Babs in London, and she was very helpful to me. Martin doesn't like her, but they're only staying a bit. They're driving on to Land's End. But do come over, Ruth, we have to get on to Truro for Boxing Day."**

 **Now it was Ruth who was puzzled. "Are you certain you're up to it Louisa. You seemed quite shattered yesterday. Don't feel you must go. I'm very capable of driving to the Parsons."**

" **No," Louisa was adamant. "Martin wants to see Chris, and it'll do us good to leave Portwenn. Isn't that what your card suggested? Thank you for the cheque, too, Ruth. It was unexpected, but we will use it for that holiday. For now, please come, and we'll plan to leave by one."**

 **Still wondering what had transpired overnight, Ruth ate a breakfast of cereal and fruit, then dressed for the day. As Louisa said, the weather was temperate, and she enjoyed a vigorous walk to the surgery. Approaching the kitchen door, she was met with hardy laughter and wasn't certain her knock would be heard.**

" **Hullo" – Ruth peered around the door, feeling her usual reticence amongst new people. "Oh, Babs and Jack," Louisa sounded quite cozy with the couple, "this is Martin's Aunt Ruth. We're soon off to Truro for Boxing Day."**

 **Before Ruth could respond, the Babs woman (as Martin called her well into the next week) unwound to her considerable height and proclaimed: "Barbara Bosley Bournham, but you can call me Babs, everyone does." At that moment, she and Ruth recognized each other and exclaimed simultaneously: "You're from the book signing!" Louisa looked from one to the other and said: "You've met?"**

" **Yes," my dear. This kind lady was the first to buy my book at St. Peter's. She started a bit of a rush for it. We have her to thank for our success."**

" **It's called marketing!" Babs swept her left hand, displaying a ring with especially fiery diamonds catching the sunlight. "One must create a little buzz about the product! I may have told a few people that you** **could ****be considered for the Crime Writer's Gold Dagger Award. Anything's** **possible,** **isn't it?"**

" **Oh, Babs, you're incorrigible!" The man laughed. Ruth shared his sentiments but then thought of the funds raised for Meals on Wheels. It was a good cause, after all.**

" **Sorry, darling, I've not introduced you properly. Ruth, this is my fiancé, Jack Holinat. Can you believe it? Louisa and I are finally being married! Spinsters no more! I'm so happy!"**

" **Down, Babs, down," the equally tall visitor stood as he patted his fiancee's arm. "She's a fine lass, but a wee bit enthusiastic. How do you do," the man graciously took Ruth's hand and made a courtly bow.**

 **Somewhat flustered by the contrasting greetings and Louisa's good humour, Ruth resorted to a simple "lovely to meet you." She then looked about and saw no hint of Martin. Surgery was closed today, and she could not imagine where he had taken himself, particularly after his desperate plea to save Louisa.**

" **Where's my nephew," Ruth tried to make light of it.**

 **Louisa shrugged: "I don't know where he might be. James is having a nap – maybe he's reading to him. He sometimes does that. He tends to nod off, though. Let me make you an espresso Ruth."**

 **A few minutes later, Ruth was sat at the table enjoying a terribly fascinating conversation with Louisa, the Babs woman, and Jack Holinat, a Scotsman who wrote for television shows. Ruth was completely taken by one of his shows set in a smart London hotel during the World War Two blitz. It was all she could do not to ask Mr. Holinat if the spikey chanteuse would win the heart of the jaded double agent, but she dare not. Although she had marked in her diary that season 2 of "Hotel Hexagon" would begin on 8** **th** **February.**

" **We must be off," Barbara Bosley Bournham stood again, but in a less intimidating fashion. "We promised India and Danny that we'd look in on his mum. She's doing quite well at the moment, but Danny still worries."**

 **Ruth noticed Louisa's tiny frown, but the girl remained gracious: "Do give Muriel our best. Be certain to tell the luvvies at High Trees that Ruth raised 600 pounds for Meals on Wheels. They'll be quite pleased."**

" **Really, Louisa, it was nothing. I only signed a few books. It was the Londoners who bought them. Thanks, of course, to Miss Bournham – Babs, that is." Ruth felt the accolade a bit misdirected.**

" **Never apologize for success as a writer," Jack Holinat advised. "Every word on the page is an agony of the mind and soul."**

" **Not my book. It's about recidivism amongst the prisoners I treated at Broadmoor Hospital. Not good bedtime reading, I'm afraid. Although criminals and young video gamers find it of interest. It's of the true crime genre, and I'm told quite popular these days."**

" **It is, indeed. Take my card," Holinat handed a white square to Ruth. "If you ever think of developing your book into another medium, please contact me first."**

 **Louisa escorted her guests to the front terrace as Ruth cleared the table. "Are they gone?" Martin whispered loudly from the adjoining lounge.**

 **Enough of her nephew's foolish behaviour: "Yes, they're gone, Martin. And they're perfectly lovely. Whatever were you thinking pulling me into this? Babs is Louisa's friend, and her fiancé is quite entertaining. You missed an interesting conversation with all your skulking about. Are you bored because surgery is closed for the day?"**

" **Perhaps, a little." Martin looked as sheepish as when scolded over a bad chess move. "Well, I certainly hope you are only bored and not jealous that Louisa's attention was elsewhere. Yesterday, you didn't care a wit about Boxing Day. Now Louisa says you're anxious to chat with Chris Parsons. No wonder the poor girl is so easily upset. You're up and down, up and down like – well - like the rocking horse you gave James Henry for Christmas!"**

" **What's that about a rocking horse?" Louisa had returned to the kitchen. "Nothing," they blurted together.**

" **Well, uhm, if we're to do this Boxing Day, we should be off Louisa. James Henry's awake and fed. I've dressed him in that ridiculous set . . . "**

" **You mean that adorable outfit Louisa's mother sent for Christmas, don't you, Martin?" Ruth would not allow a repeat of yesterday.**

" **Yes, I'll bring the car round," Martin again exited quickly through the kitchen door.**

" **Nice save, Ruth," Louisa placed an arm around her. "Don't worry, we're getting used to him."**

 **Continued . . . .**


End file.
